


A Hundred Silver Lamps

by Anatoria



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2019-10-09 13:59:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 31,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17408207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anatoria/pseuds/Anatoria
Summary: Cadhríen is a lady-in-waiting; a trusted maid and confidante of Galadriel. When yet another band of Orcs is spotted near Lothlórien's northern borders, Cadhríen finds herself accompanying Celeborn and Haldir to Mirkwood, where the Galadhrim hope to renew ties and forge an alliance with the haughty Elvenking, Thranduil, and his son, the spirited Legolas.





	1. Unwelcome Tidings

_Spring, 3015 (Third Age)_

Soft rain pattered through the canopy, dripping from the boughs of the _mellyrn_ and the carved arches that formed the chamber’s walls. The early-spring air was damp and fresh, and Cadhríen breathed it in slowly, trying to quash her unease.

To an observer, the scene in the chamber would no doubt seem peaceful – four Elf-maids arranged on cushioned benches: two sewing, one singing in a low murmur, one gazing out at the trunks of the _mellyrn_ , grey like ghosts in the night. But Cadhríen could feel the tension in the room; could see her Lady’s fingertips, white as her white gown, pressed against her knuckles as she clasped her hands in her lap and stared into the lamp-lit wood. Across the chamber, Mîreth’s voice grew quieter, then petered out before the song’s last note. It did not look like Galadriel, Lady of the Golden Wood, had been listening, anyway; her eyes were distant, her mind elsewhere.

Chestnut-haired Gilrendel sighed and lowered her sewing, catching Cadhríen’s eye as Mîreth’s lower lip trembled. The youngest of Galadriel’s ladies-in-waiting, Mîreth had taken the news of the latest sighting near the northern borders the hardest. Two dozen Orcs, the marchwardens had said, heading south from Dimrill Dale to who-knew-where. Haldir and Maeron had left to pursue them, but that had been several days ago, and they had heard nothing since.

“My lady?” Gilrendel ventured, soft and low. Galadriel did not reply.

Then Cadhríen heard a familiar voice inside her head, deep and melodic: _Go to the house-guards. Perhaps they have news._

She doubted it – Celeborn was in the throneroom and would have come straight here had he received a report – but she put down her sewing and rose immediately, striding out of the chamber with the other maids’ eyes on her back. It was her turn to play errand-runner today, it seemed. Nimwen, Galadriel’s favourite and longest-serving companion, was nowhere to be seen, off somewhere on household business.

It was late; the stairways and cloistered halls of the house stood silent and empty. Halfway to the throneroom, where a ladder led down to the lawn on which guards were stationed day and night, she almost ran straight into Nimwen, who appeared suddenly from around a corner, breathless and bright-eyed.

“Haldir has returned,” the older maiden said, grabbing Cadhríen’s elbow to steady herself. “You go down – I will fetch the Lady. They are in the throneroom.”

And she was off, quick feet hurrying down the hall, golden hair disappearing into darkness.

Cadhríen stood for a moment, trying to detect her Lady’s questioning mind. If Galadriel reached out to her now, she would know immediately what had happened. But the link had been closed, and Cadhríen couldn’t bridge it herself. No matter. She started towards the throneroom, passing a few Elves not yet abed, ignoring their enquiring glances. Relief bloomed in her chest. She knew Haldir could take care of himself, but that didn’t stop her trepidation every time her closest friend ventured beyond the safety of their borders. These were dark times, growing darker by the day, and it was only a year since they had lost Amarthain.

The throneroom was lit with yellow lamps, the shadows of the pillars and arches criss-crossing the wooden floor. Celeborn sat in his chair beneath the bole of the great _mallorn_ , clad in a silver nightgown, his face grave. Haldir and Maeron stood before him, but they turned at the sound of Cadhríen’s footsteps and pressed their palms to their chests in greeting. She hurried over to them, taking Haldir’s lowered hand in hers. “You return. What news? Did the creatures enter the wood?”

“No,” Haldir replied, squeezing her hand gently before turning his grey eyes on Celeborn. “None have trespassed beneath our boughs – yet. But it is only a matter of time. They grow bolder, and more numerous.”

“They are breeding in the Mines,” came a voice from the doorway. Galadriel entered and strode over to her husband, placing a pale hand on his arm. “I have seen it.” Behind her, Gilrendel, Mîreth and Nimwen sidled in and stood silent.

“But where are they bound?” Celeborn replied. “Not Dol Guldur, if they were heading south.”

Haldir and Maeron exchanged glances, their expressions strained. “We tracked them for many leagues,” said Maeron, his copper hair glinting in the golden lamplight. “They crossed the Nimrodel and hugged the mountains, then entered Fangorn.”

Cadhríen’s eyes widened, as did her fellow maids’. “Defilers,” she muttered before she could stop herself, but by the look on Celeborn’s face, he agreed. Galadriel remained impassive.

“We think they knew we were tracking them, as they split up under the trees, and we knew not who to follow. But their trajectory was south-west. They were heading for the Gap of Rohan.”

The word hung unspoken between them, heavy and foreboding in the shadowed chamber: _Isengard_. They still had no proof that the bands of Orcs spotted with increasing frequency in recent years had anything to do with the White Wizard. But from what Cadhríen had gleaned from whispered rumours and clipped comments, it seemed Saruman had withdrawn and grown secretive, and it had become difficult to pass through the Gap of Rohan without being watched.

“They could have been making for the Fords,” Haldir said. “Perhaps they would have turned west, had we tracked them further.” But he looked unconvinced, and Galadriel’s expression grew faintly troubled.

The Lady’s blue eyes darted among them all. “I would speak with you, husband, and with Haldir… and Cadhríen, if you would stay a moment.”

The other maidens glanced at each other and headed for the door, throwing questioning looks over their shoulders at Cadhríen. She lifted her own shoulders lightly in return, saying with her eyes: _I don’t know what this is about, either._ Maeron touched his hand to his heart, tipped his head and followed the maidens out, catching up to Nimwen as they disappeared into the shadowy hallway, muttering something in her ear.

When it was just the four of them left, Galadriel stepped over to her chair and sat down.

“Orcs breeding in the Mines,” she said slowly. “Bands of them travelling south, north, east… Wolves howling on our borders. Rumours of dark things under Mirkwood’s eaves. And something darker still in Mordor… a growing shadow.”

Cadhríen frowned uneasily, catching Haldir’s eye.

“I feel surrounded on all sides,” Galadriel continued, her expression weary now. She fingered the ring on her left hand, turning it over and over. “I must speak with Mithrandir, but I cannot leave the wood. Lothlórien needs my protection.”

Haldir shifted slightly. “My scouts have seen the Grey Pilgrim,” he said. “He was far north of here, accompanied by the Ranger Aragorn. They would not stop. They were travelling east on business unknown.”

Galadriel was silent a moment, her gaze distant. “In times past, I would have convened with the White Council. But I fear that to contact Saruman now would be… unwise.” A small frown creased her ivory brow.

“Have you seen him?” Celeborn asked, and Cadhríen knew immediately what he meant; knew he was referring to the Mirror.

“No.” Galadriel turned her head and stared out at the silent _mellyrn_ , their branches dripping in the rain. “I think he has closed himself off from me. I do not know how.” She drew in a breath and let it out in a long, soft sigh. “But I have seen clearly the evil that is growing in Dol Guldur. I have seen the threat it poses to us – greater, for now, than all the rest – and to Thranduil and his people.” She looked back at her husband. “I have considered long and hard, Celeborn, and I think we need to contact them. The Wood-elves. Not to warn them – I am certain they are aware of what festers there – but to offer aid, and request it in return. We cannot face this growing shadow alone. Only together would we have the numbers to withstand multiple assaults. To throw down the tower.”

Cadhríen could not help but interject. “The Wood-elves of Mirkwood? But we have had no dealings with their kind for thousands of years.” _Since well before most of us were born_ , she wanted to add.

“Yes, they are sundered from us,” Galadriel replied, turning her fathomless gaze on Cadhríen, “and they have grown insular and suspicious. But they still trade with the Men of the Long Lake, and they are numerous. To have them fight by our side in the event of attack would be… advantageous.”

Celeborn was nodding, but Haldir looked dubious. “My lady, forgive me, but the Galadhrim are formidable warriors. What force could threaten us here? What aid could the northern Elves give us – we who know our woods so well, who have routed band after band of Orcs with practised ease?”

“Your confidence in our defences is admirable,” said Galadriel, her voice serene, “but have you forgotten Amarthain?”

The chamber grew silent. Cadhríen remembered Maeron’s auburn-haired brother – his easy smile – with a painful twist of her insides. Haldir lowered his chin and dropped his gaze to the floor in deference.

“I will go to Thranduil,” Celeborn said, breaking the solemn stillness. “I will persuade him.” He glanced at his wife, at the ring gleaming on her hand. “You must stay here, for the protection of the city, but I will take a small company with me.”

“A company that must include Haldir – and Cadhríen,” Galadriel replied.

Cadhríen’s stomach lurched. “Me?” No. _No._ She had not left the wood in centuries; not since the end of the Watchful Peace, when the Necromancer had returned to Dol Guldur. She was needed _here_.

“Yes, for Haldir has taught you Westron and Dwarvish, and the northern dialects, and he is the only marchwarden I am willing to spare for this journey, in these dark times.”

“How did you –“ Cadhríen started, then bit her tongue. The Lady of the Wood knew many things, and it was no one’s place to question how she knew them. Cadhríen’s cheeks grew hot as she realised how close she had come to such rudeness.

If Galadriel minded, she did not show it. In fact, she looked a little amused. “I urge you to seek out Mithrandir on your journey,” she said, with a long look at both of them. “Tell him of our troubles, and ask him to visit me here. I wish to hear his news.”

“Of course,” Haldir said, shooting Cadhríen an inscrutable glance. Cadhríen chewed her lip in frustration.

“I will leave you to choose the rest of the company,” Galadriel said to Celeborn, then she rose from her chair. “Now I must retire. I wish you all a peaceful night’s rest.”

“Good night, my lady” Haldir murmured in farewell, and Cadhríen echoed him, her voice strained. She could hardly believe what she had heard. _Her?_ Go to _Mirkwood?_ It was madness. Her place was here, at her Lady’s side. She was a lady-in-waiting, not some glorified messenger to be sent out into the wilds. She clenched her fists and tried to calm her churning insides. Galadriel had seemed so unconcerned, so ready to give her up for who-knew-how-long. She knew deep down why that hurt, but she pushed the knowledge away.

She would have to leave behind the comforts of the Lady’s house for _lembas_ and lumpy bedrolls, and that was just the journey! She had heard tales of the northern Elves’ uncivilised ways. Rúmil had told her they lived underground, but that could hardly be possible…

“Go, rest now,” came Celeborn’s voice, filtering through the rushing in her ears. “We will convene on the morrow. I will send a rider to the Elvenking’s Halls, to warn Thranduil of our coming.”

Cadhríen felt Haldir take her elbow, and she let him steer her from the room. Once they were in a distant stairwell, out of earshot of the Lord of the Wood, she pulled her arm from his grip and rounded on him. “Can you believe this?”

The marchwarden grimaced. “I am not too pleased about it, either.”

“Why did you have to teach me Westron?”

His brow quirked. “You insisted. You said you had read everything in Elvish in Celeborn’s library and wanted to be able to read the rest.”

“Can’t you _un_ teach me?” she said, wringing her hands.

That drew a smile from him – a rare occurrence these days. “It won’t be that bad, I promise. And you shall have me for company.” He tipped his head, looking into her eyes.

Cadhríen sighed and leaned back against the cool, carved wall of the stairwell. “How long do you think we have?”

“Until we leave?” he said. There was a pause. “I imagine we will depart within the week.”

Her resulting groan had probably been heard three hallways away.

“Come,” Haldir said, and he took her arm again. “Let us tell the others.”


	2. A Grey Departure

She dreamed of her mother that night; hair the colour of a starless night, eyes like a storm at sea.

She dreamed of the white horse that had borne her mother away, under the yellow blossom of a spring four hundred years ago. She could feel the soft grass under her feet, Gilrendel’s hand on her arm, the chill of the tear tracks on her cheeks in the breeze. In the dream, she turned away, and behind her was her father’s grave; that grassy mound rising from the green, speckled with niphredil and elanor. Despite the sun bathing it in golden light, despite the singing of many birds above her, it was horrible to look upon, and she woke with wet eyes and a damp pillow, limbs tangled in her white sheets.

The dream soon faded, forgotten, and her anger at the previous night’s events returned. After breakfast, she presented herself at the door of her mistress’s study, determined to plead her case.

“You think you can spare me now, my lady, but my absence will be felt. Keenly.”

The Lady of the Wood folded her hands in her lap. “Nimwen, Gilrendel and Mîreth may not have your… steely efficiency, it is true, but they are more than capable of keeping this house running for a few months.” Galadriel’s eyes danced. “I do not make that much work for you all, do I?”

“Well, no,” Cadhríen faltered, “but –”

“And Lord Celeborn’s books will still be here when you return, I can promise you that.”

“But I –”

“You may even take a few with you, if you’d like.”

Defeated, Cadhríen slunk away to find Nimwen, whom she eventually discovered in the dining chamber, sitting at the long oak table with a rag, methodically polishing the silver. Birds chattered in the branches beyond the veranda, and a cool draught wafted her hair as she sat down beside the older maiden and picked up a candlestick.

“I admire her for it, you know,” Cadhríen said, not looking at her companion. She rubbed vigorously at a small black stain. “The ease with which she can send people away. Someone who’s been by her side for so long. How I wish _I_ could be so carefree.”

Nimwen gave her a sidelong glance, one eyebrow raised. “It is not permanent exile. And have you not stopped to consider that she might be sending you because she trusts you?” Her blue eyes returned to the goblet she was polishing. “Perhaps above all of us.”

Cadhríen huffed softly. “No. We all know she favours you.” She held up the candlestick, inspecting it in the sunlight. “She is sending me because I was _there_ , and she doesn’t want to ‘spare another marchwarden’. She said that.”

Nimwen surveyed her for a long time, then placed the goblet back on the table. “She is not abandoning you, Cadhríen. This isn’t the same.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Cadhríen’s voice was light, but her chest felt like a coiled spring. “What time is it? I’m going to turn down the beds.” And she put down the candlestick – stain still stubbornly intact – and strode out of the room, her mind a black cloud.

*

It was terrifying, how quickly the day of departure rolled around. It felt like only a moment ago that she had had a week stretching ahead of her, plenty of time to fume and argue and change her Lady’s mind. But already it was the night before they were due to leave, Galadriel remained unmoved, and Cadhríen was moping over a plate of venison in the kitchens, painfully aware that this was the last hot meal she would enjoy for weeks. Haldir had already informed her that they would be subsisting on _lembas_ for the journey – cookfires would draw unwanted attention in the lands east of the mountains.

“I don’t know what you’re so unhappy about,” said Mîreth, ever the idealist, her silver-white hair glittering under the kitchen’s wooden chandelier. Her fretfulness of a week ago was forgotten now that Haldir and Maeron had returned safe. “ _I_ think it will be awfully exciting. Imagine – renewing contact with our long-lost cousins!”

Nimwen and Gilrendel exchanged amused glances as Cadhríen shot her a disgruntled look. “I’ve been reading about them,” she replied, “and if the stories are anything to go by, they will throw us in their dungeons as soon as look at us, and we’ll rot to death.” She took a bite of venison and chewed it grimly. “So much for our Lady’s grand plan.”

“Hush,” said Gilrendel, and they looked around. No one was listening.

“Surely not,” Mîreth insisted, cutting into her own food. “They have sent Amrohil ahead as a messenger. The Elvenking will be expecting you.”

Cadhríen swallowed her mouthful. “How do you know Amrohil is not already their prisoner?”

“Cadhríen,” Nimwen murmured, and she put a hand on Gilrendel’s knee to stop her snorting with laughter.

Mîreth frowned and put down her knife. “You ought to be grateful, Cadhríen. The Lady has put great trust in you. I – and I’m sure I speak for Nimwen and Gilrendel, too – would be _honoured_ to be in your place. Yet you grumble and moan as though you’ve been asked to scrub the marchwardens’ barracks.” She looked down at her food, only half finished. “It’s late. I am going to snuff the lamps.” And she pushed her chair back, got up and left the room.

Nimwen sighed. “Do you always have to be the voice of doom and gloom, Cadhríen?”

“I am only being a realist,” Cadhríen objected, spearing more venison. “There _is_ doom and gloom out there, in the wide world – what does Mîreth know of the lands beyond our borders? She has never left the wood. She is a child; she has not even seen her thousandth birthday.”

“She is a romantic,” Gilrendel acknowledged reluctantly, “but do you really think we can face what is out there alone, Cadhríen? Have you considered that _not_ allying ourselves with distant kin while we have the chance might, in the end, be our undoing?”

The conversation had taken a dark turn, and the three of them sat in silence a moment, lost in troubled contemplation. Eventually, Nimwen reached out and began to stack the plates. “Come,” she said briskly, “have you finished packing, Cadhríen? Do you wish to borrow my leather gloves?”

*

They went to bed late that night, having packed and repacked Cadhríen’s supplies several times to get them down to a suitable size and weight. The company would be taking two packhorses with them, but with Celeborn’s ‘small’ tribe of representatives now numbering a dozen, there was little room for more than a bedroll, a blanket and a few changes of clothes; and there was no room for home comforts. Cadhríen drifted into an uneasy sleep, wondering how long it would be until she next encountered a hairbrush – surely they had _those_ up in their northern caves?

Before dawn broke the next morning, when her bedchamber was dark and still, she woke to a soft hand on her shoulder and a familiar, hushed voice in her ear: “One more thing to carry with you. Come.”

She followed Haldir down the silent hall and into the house’s armoury. Long daggers and knives were hung around the walls; gauntlets and baldrics and gleaming Galadhrim helmets were piled on shelves that towered almost to the ceiling. As Haldir rummaged in a corner, Cadhríen yawned and rubbed her arms; it was cool in the large room, and she was still in her nightgown. She quirked an eyebrow as her friend came over bearing a _mallorn_ shortbow, intricately carved, and a quiver of feathered arrows.

“I know that you and the Lady’s other companions all carry a silver dagger,” he said, glancing down at the belt of her gown – she slept with it sheathed, just in case; in the unlikely event that trouble reached Caras Galadhon, she wanted to be prepared. “But out there, it is better to fell the enemy before he reaches you than go hand to hand in combat.”

He held the bow out and she took it, still sceptical. She could use one, of course – you could not grow up in Lothlórien and avoid being taught – but she knew she wasn’t very good. “I can handle an Orc or two,” she said, touching the knife at her belt. She would be far swifter than they; and if they presented a problem, she could always run.

“There may be more than one or two,” Haldir said, his gaze concerned. He held the bow out further. “Please. For me.”

She took it with a sigh, weighing it in her hand. It was a good bow. “Very well. Give me the quiver.”

He handed it over, looking happier, and she shouldered them and followed him out into the hall.

*

They were to leave at first light. The spring rain, which had held off for most of the previous week, returned as they gathered on the lawn beneath the great _mallorn_ at the centre of the city. The fine drizzle dampened their grey cloaks and the glossy coats of the horses, and splashed into the bubbling fountain, which was lit by glowing silver lamps. Cadhríen had made up with Mîreth over an early breakfast, and her three fellow ladies-in-waiting now stood sheltering under a large bough, sending small smiles and waves her way. A few other onlookers had gathered to see them off, but Celeborn had not wanted too much fuss; and in any case, the marchwardens were all off on their patrols by now.

Celeborn was the last to arrive, accompanied by Galadriel, who looked unusually grave. Cadhríen wondered briefly if she had seen something foreboding in the Mirror, but knew she would have warned them if it pertained to their route north.

Cadhríen had never seen the Lord of Lórien dressed in travelling garb, and she stared, astonished, at his grey tunic, hooded cloak and leather baldric. But he wore a silver circlet on his head and carried a long, slim sword at his side, which marked him out from the rest of the company. He embraced his wife and exchanged a quiet word with her before turning and mounting a dapple grey steed.

“We set out north-west and hug the mountains,” he ordered, “at least as far as the Gladden Fields. Following the Anduin now would only take us too close to Dol Guldur.”

She felt a ripple of unease pass through the group, of which only Haldir was a seasoned warrior. She saw him give Celeborn a nod.

“Farewell, Cadhríen!” Mîreth called through the rain, and Cadhríen felt a prickle of guilt at having teased her friend the night before. She hadn’t changed her mind – she would much rather be staying at home than embarking on this trip – but she had to admit there had been some sense in what Gilrendel had said. They could only try. With any luck, Celeborn would succeed in convincing Thranduil of this wisdom quickly, and they could turn around and be back in their feather beds before the month was up.

A small voice in the back of her mind insisted it couldn’t – wouldn’t – be that easy; but as they set off, single file behind Celeborn’s mount, down the path to the white bridge and out of the lamp-lit city, she determinedly pushed it away.


	3. Into the Mist

Up the Silverlode they travelled, on a well-trodden Elvish path, and some hours later came out from under the gold-flecked trees into a wide, hilly country of rocks and wooded dells. They followed the clear, cold river north-west for a time, but then turned due north and left it behind, heading up past Fanuidhol – Cloudyhead – which towered above them to their left, its craggy peaks hidden in grey cloud. The sky above them was dreary, and a cool drizzle still fell.

When they stopped to rest, some members of the group cast dark looks westwards, where the Dimrill Dale and its gaping entrance to Moria lay hidden in a hollow of the mountains. Cadhríen tugged her cloak tighter around her and was glad it was still daytime, though it was fast getting late. The gates to the Mines lay open and broken, and bands of Orcs had been spotted roving the plains and vales around them at night.

“This is where we tracked them from,” came Haldir’s voice from beside her. His hood was raised; his features shadowed. “The Orcs that went south.”

Cadhríen glanced over her shoulder, back the way they had come. The mountains stretched out behind them, no end to them in sight, their outlines just visible in the grey haze.

On they went, north, Celeborn’s dappled horse leading them over rocky hillocks and rushing streams. Daylight waned and the moon began to glow white behind the clouds. When night fell, the Lord of Lórien called back to them, “Away west on the other side of these mountains lies the old realm of the Noldor, Eregion!” His eyes seemed to burn with a silver fire as he looked that way. “The Lady and I ruled there for a time, until it came under the reign of Celebrimbor, the jewel-smith.”

Those in the company that had never before left the wood looked west in wonder. “What happened to the Elves of that land?” one asked, glancing up at their leader.

Celeborn rode on for a moment in silence, then said simply, “They fell.”

Cadhríen walked stoically behind him, looking west only briefly as they continued on their way. She and her fellow ladies-in-waiting had heard the tale of Sauron’s destruction of Eregion from Galadriel. It was a dark story, and Celebrimbor had met a terrible end. She didn’t like to think of it, if she could help it.

They left the Silverlode far behind. Cadhríen shivered slightly in the damp breeze that swept east from the mountains and gazed ahead to where a curving line of trees could just be discerned, faint on the horizon.

“The Gladden River,” said Haldir, shaking water from his cloak. “We have done well to travel so far in so short a time.”

“Indeed we have,” Celeborn replied, dismounting, “and I am not yet weary, but I have not been walking, and there are no stars out to guide our way.” He patted his horse’s flank. “These lands are not yet as dangerous as those further south. We shall rest for a few hours and replenish our strength.”

The company halted, and the Elves sat gratefully on the springy grass and passed _lembas_ and flasks of cordial around. They did not risk a fire or torches, for there was just enough moonlight to see by; it bathed the rocky ground around them in pale silver. It was only now that they had stopped that Cadhríen felt the ache in her feet and legs; she was not used to long hikes. Haldir, who often spent his days trekking the forest and the lands round about, wandered a little way off and stood watch, his shrouded figure dark against the charcoal sky, facing south.

Once they had eaten, many of the Elves lay down among the hillocks and drifted into sleep. Cadhríen did the same, tucked under her blanket with the black expanse of night above her. The last thing she saw before slumber took her was a growing gap in the clouds, through which bright stars were beginning to appear.

*

The morning dawned clear and blue, a stark contrast to the gloom of the previous day. Cadhríen could not tell if Celeborn or Haldir had slept, but they both looked restored and eager to get started. The company made even better progress that morning, for the land was beginning to flatten and their feet moved nimbly over the grass. The sun burst out from behind the Vales of Anduin and cheered their hearts, and they reached the Gladden River by mid-afternoon, following it east a short way.

Once they had rested a while, Celeborn drew Haldir and Cadhríen aside. “I hope you are refreshed,” he said, “as I have a task for you. Run ahead and look for signs of Mithrandir’s passing, as Galadriel requested of us. With your tracking skills, Haldir, I know you will not miss anything; and perhaps you can begin to teach Cadhríen here the ways of the wilderness.”

The evening sky was tinged with pink as the two of them hastened up the river, every now and then breaking into a swift run when the land on the southern bank allowed it. Cadhríen dwelled uneasily on Celeborn’s parting words as they went, wondering if he simply wanted to increase her usefulness on this trip alone, or if he was hinting that future forays out of the wood were in store for her. It was surely the former, she told herself anxiously, trying not to remember the curious glint in his eye when Galadriel had revealed her maid spoke Westron.

The land grew increasingly wet and marshy underfoot. Haldir began to stop every now and then, bending to examine seemingly innocuous bushes and patches of ground. He showed Cadhríen the telltale signs of animals passing – disturbances in the dirt, tree bark scored by antlers, the claw marks of wolves – and she tried to remember and keep an eye out for them herself.

Suddenly, as they sprung down a high, forested bank, he put a hand on her arm and bade her look at the trees surrounding them. “Do you notice anything unusual?”

Cadhríen scrutinised the foliage. “Some twigs and branches are broken here, and here, up to man-height… but no higher.”

“Yes,” he replied, turning in a circle.

“Mithrandir?” she asked in a low voice, looking about her in the dimness. There were no sounds in the marshy woods save the rustling of leaves and the cawing of birds.

“No,” Haldir said, running his hand over a young tree’s snapped limbs. “There is enough room for one man to run through these trees; only two abreast – a long line of them – would cause damage like this.”

“Not men, then,” Cadhríen said, distate coating her words. “Orcs.”

They stood still for a moment, listening. When they were sure they were alone, Haldir searched the ground around them and decided eventually that the troop must have passed some days ago; there were numerous animal tracks laid over the Orcish footprints.

They continued deeper into the Gladden Fields and searched until the light failed, but turned up nothing else. They had brought a small supply of _lembas_ and a flask of water with them, and they listened to owls hooting and bats fluttering above them as they ate and drank. Cadhríen’s travelling clothes were just beginning to feel dirty and rumpled, and she longed for a thorough wash, but the water in the pools around them looked stagnant and smelled foul.

“I am by no means keen to reach the Elvenking’s Halls,” she said, packing their supplies away again, “but if he has a brass bathtub and a bar of soap, I shall sing his praises from the treetops.”

Haldir’s soft chuckle drifted out of the darkness. “They may be a rough sort of folk, if the books be believed, but I’m certain they will have bathtubs, at least.”

They did not feel tired, so they sat up talking and singing in soft voices until the first vestiges of dawn touched the eastern sky. Then they slumbered for an hour or two, until there was enough light to see by, and got up and continued their search, finding no trace of the passing of any free folk, even as they came out of the wooded glades and found themselves on the western banks of the Anduin, the Great River, which roared and tumbled past them over stones and rocky outcrops.

“Come,” cried Haldir, turning north. “We cannot cross the river for another hundred miles, until we reach the Old Ford. Let us get out of these damp hollows and wait for the others.”

*

They washed their feet and faces in the Anduin once they’d left the marshes, but the water was too cold and swift-moving to bathe in. Then they sat in the sun on a low, grassy knoll and listened for the footsteps of their company, which eventually reached their ears just past noon.

“What news?” called Celeborn as his horse trotted up to them. “Has Mithrandir passed this way?”

“Not recently, if he has at all,” Haldir replied, shading his eyes with his hand.

Cadhríen was standing a short distance away, looking to the east. That way lay Mirkwood, but she could not see it yet. There was a barely-discernable shadow on the horizon that could have been a treeline, but she was likely imagining it – she knew from the maps in Celeborn’s library that the edge of that vast forest lay forty miles from the eastern bank of the Anduin.

“No matter,” Celeborn said, bringing his mount around to face north. “Let us go on – we are well rested and can walk long into the night tonight, if the sky stays clear.”

And stay clear it did, for the rest of that day and much of the next. They hastened up the Great River, keeping out of sight of the well-trodden footpaths along its forested banks as much as possible. Haldir had told Celeborn about the Orc troop that had passed through the marshes, and they wanted to avoid any confrontation in the narrow river vales, should the creatures still lurk nearby. But their pace was good and their spirits high, for they were used to travelling through woodland, and by late evening on their second day out of the Gladden Fields, they finally saw the Carrock – the tall, rocky island in the river just north of the Old Ford – looming out of the darkness ahead.

As they approached the stepping stones that spanned the Anduin and crossed over to the eastern bank, they saw mists beginning to gather above the water and in the hollows round about. The ponies became jittery, and the Elves spoke comforting words to them as they made their way east through the tall grass, along a rough track that would eventually become the Old Forest Road. Cadhríen stared apprehensively into the gloom. They were closer now to the borders of Mirkwood than at any point in their journey so far, and the horses could no doubt sense it. But she could see no trees yet, and before long the fog thickened so much that she had trouble picking out Celeborn’s mount just in front.

Haldir hurried past her in the haze. She heard his voice drifting back to her, muffled: “We should go no further. These mists show no signs of abating.”

“Just a little further,” Celeborn replied calmly. “There are only a few more miles to go, and though we hear nothing but ill tidings of Mirkwood, I would rather be hidden under its eaves when we stop than remain out here, adrift.”

Haldir did not argue, but soon they were forced to halt, for they could no longer see the stars above them, nor each other, and the packhorses were straining at their reins, panicked by the walls of grey closing in around them. The Elves were no longer certain they were heading due east, and all agreed it would be better to snatch what sleep they could while they waited for their surroundings to clear.

They were all weary, and there seemed little point in setting a watch when they could not see two inches in front of their faces, but Haldir volunteered anyway. He sat with his back against a tree they had found, a little way from where they had stopped. They tied the horses to it, too, and Haldir spoke soft words to the beasts to calm them. The other Elves, including Celeborn, cast themselves down on the pillowy grass and ate a little food before resting.

All was silent. No birds called; no foliage rustled in any breeze; no insects chirped. It seemed as though all was carpeted in a thick, grey blanket. Cadhríen lay bundled in her cloak, and realised then how chill the air was this far north. Tendrils of damp mist caressed her face and encircled her, wrapping her like a spider wraps its victims in silk. She eventually began to nod off; a solitary, huddled form in a sea of white, none of her companions visible to her, though she knew they lay only feet away in the dark.


	4. Wolves in the Night

She slept uneasily, her dreams full of dark things stalking under dark boughs.

She was running through a forest, its trees at first large and round and well-spaced, like those of home. What she was running from she did not know; every time she turned her head to look, her vision swam, and whatever was chasing her grew blurry and indistinct. Then the trees crowded closer together, her path through them becoming less and less clear, and their limbs reached out ever further and impeded her progress, their sharp, curling ends tearing her clothes and scratching her skin.

Her pursuer gained ground; she could _hear_ its thudding footsteps coming through the forest. The gnarled trunks and branches pressed nearer and nearer, hindering her every movement. She tried to climb one of them, but her arms and legs… they wouldn’t _work_. A keen howling came out of the darkness under the trees. The thing behind her was wailing, long and high, and there was something horribly familiar about its call.

“Cadhríen! Cadhríen, wake up!”

A hand was shaking her roughly. Her eyes opened, but she was still sleep-addled, and it took her a few seconds to register the black shapes of her companions moving to and fro above her. It was still night, but the fog had cleared a good deal. There was a brisk wind blowing. Blinking away the dream, she saw stars winking in the navy sky.

Then she heard it: a drawn-out howl from close by, rising sharply then falling in pitch. It was joined by others. She sat up and scrabbled for her belongings in the waving grass. She did not know who had shaken her.

“They must have come upon us in the fog and waited for their chance,” she heard Celeborn shout, and there came the ring of steel as he drew his sword. “Curse them!”

“Arm yourselves and make for the forest!” called Haldir, and suddenly she felt his strong arms pulling her up, pressing her cold silver dagger into her hand. “Celeborn and I will bring up the rear!”

Cadhríen looked around frantically as they untied the ponies and began to run east, leaving nothing on the grass save the remnants of their meal and a few discarded blankets, abandoned by their panicked owners. She could not see the wolves; not yet. But she could hear the pounding of paws on the grass behind them, growing louder, and it reminded her of her dream. Her heart leapt.

The wolves were swift, but the Elves were also. Cadhríen put one hand to her back and fumbled quickly for her bow. It felt strange in her arms – she had not shot anything for months – but she nocked an arrow anyway and looked back at the wide, night-shrouded plains behind her. That was when she saw their eyes: red pinpricks in the dark, six pairs of them at most. One for every two of the Elves. She felt a flicker of relief, but it was weak and wavering.

Haldir and Celeborn slowed, dropping back, and she hesitated and turned around fully, not wanting to leave them behind.

“Go!” cried Haldir, his grey eyes wild and blazing, and he strung an arrow and let it fly into the night. There was a high yelp. The last thing she saw before she whirled and sped east after the rest of the company was Celeborn’s sword, white like frost on a winter’s morning, glittering coldly under the stars. She heard Haldir and his Lord cry out together – _Valinor!_ – and then they were gone, lost in the blackness, and she looked ahead and could see nothing before her, only the endless, empty night.

*

She ran for what seemed like an hour, but did not catch up to her companions. Eventually, out of the darkness ahead, a great host of thin, twisted figures suddenly loomed, and she stumbled back with a whimper. But then she realised they were trees, and she crept forward towards them, her breath coming shaky and fast.

_Mirkwood._

Her heart was heavy with dread as she took her first, tentative steps under its boughs. She had never before set foot in a forest that felt so… _ill_. It was black as pitch under the trees, and even her keen Elvish eyes struggled to pick out a clear way forward. There was no sign of the path they had been following – in the turmoil of the attack and her hasty flight east, she had probably veered slightly north or south. Without knowing which, it would be difficult to find the Old Forest Road at night. She should stay put until morning, when she could venture a short way out of the forest and gauge the lay of the land.

She unshouldered her pack and huddled at the base of a large, gnarled oak, listening closely to the noises around her. There were no Elvish footsteps or fair voices to be heard; just the flitting of bats, the fluttering of large moths and the rustling and chirping of animals in the undergrowth. Every now and then, as she looked about her, a small pair of yellow or green eyes glinted out from the darkness, then flashed away again with a swishing of leaves. The wind did not penetrate the tangled treeline, and the air was still and warm. It did not take long for her to doze off, her head cushioned by the ivy wreathed around the oak’s trunk, and she slept dreamlessly for an hour or two, until she was woken by the hooting of dawn-birds and the dripping of cold dew on her upturned face.

She sat listening again for a while, and thought she heard faint movement nearby. But before she could rise and creep forward cautiously to investigate, there was a sudden, loud rustling among the bushes and ferns, and out of them strode Haldir, a long knife held out in front of him to cut away the brush.

“Haldir!” she cried, and sprung to her feet, cheered to see him hale and unharmed after the attack of the night before. Yet he put a finger to his lips and gestured south, picking his way over the leaves and ivy to help her with her pack and quiver.

“We are not too far from the Old Forest Road,” he said in a low whisper, “but Celeborn and I witnessed a band of goblins travelling along it before dawn, carrying weapons and torches. They seemed unconcerned at their visibility.” His face was pale and drawn. “I fear this is an evil place; eviller perhaps than we first thought, even this far north of the Tower.”

When she had strapped her belongings to her back and had her _mallorn_ shortbow in her hands, he led her north-east through the knotted foliage, to where Celeborn was waiting with two others of their party.

“I am glad to see you well, Cadhríen,” the Lord of the Wood said quietly. “We have not yet found the rest of the company, but we think they cannot be far.”

“What of the wolves?” Cadhríen said, glancing west through the crowd of trees. “What happened?”

“We dealt with them,” Celeborn said simply, “and we hope that none remain, for it looks like the ponies were turned loose at the edge of the forest. Their baggage has gone; our companions must be carrying it.”

“That is quite a load,” she replied, peering into the thin, grey mist that still clung in places to the leaves and matted branches about them. “They cannot have gone very far.”

“No,” Haldir agreed, and set off north-east again, beckoning for them to follow. “The Elvenking’s Halls lie this way. I think our friends are a little ahead of us, as they reached the wood first. We will soon catch up to them.”

And catch up to them they did, before the end of that day, in a small dell about twenty miles on into the forest, where the land was just beginning to rise up around them and the trees stood a little further apart from one another. They greeted each other warmly and shared out the baggage between them, but Haldir still looked grave. “We have come too far eastwards,” he muttered, looking around them at the banks and hollows. “These are the foothills of the Mountains of Mirkwood, where dark things dwell. We may rest here a short while, but then we must turn north.”

They were unable to go much further after their rest, for night fell on them quickly and shrouded the forest floor in inky black. They did not risk a fire, being so close still to the mountains, but now that they were together again their hearts were cheered, and they sat up for a time and sang in quiet voices, and talked of the wolves and of the forest.

Cadhríen nibbled a wedge of _lembas_ and listened to the chatter, glad that she was no longer out in the open, but not as glad as some of the others to be under leaves and branches again. This place was oppressive; it seemed to push in around her on all sides, and she was constantly aware of its enormity, its terrifying vastness. Not to mention the goblins and other fell creatures that Haldir had hinted at, sharing this expanse of black with them, roaming out there in the gloom, unseen. She had set out on this trip with a wariness of the Wood-elves and their strange and unfamiliar ways… now she found herself looking forward to reaching the safety of their halls. _How_ they could live here, in this unseemly place, she had no idea. She shivered and pulled her cloak around her, and stared back at the green and yellow eyes watching her from the shadows.

*

The next day, the cobwebs began to appear.

They were huge and thick and sticky, white as a crone’s hair, stretched between branches and hanging in clumps from twisted boughs. The Elves tried not to look at them as they passed by; tried not to measure them with their eyes and wonder how large a spider would have to be to construct such a dwelling. Their pace hastened, though the ground was not much lighter by day as it was by night under Mirkwood’s eaves, and to their great relief they heard no scuttling and saw no quick movements in the branches that day, or the next, or the next.

Cadhríen was beginning to lose track of how long they had been in this accursed forest when, hearing the rushing and burbling of water over rocks, they came upon a fast-flowing river, which cut a deep gully through the thick brush, tumbling down banks and forming cold, clear pools under the arches of the trees.

They had only followed it for a short time when they heard the sound of quiet steps on leaves, and the faint creaking of a bowstring being drawn.

Haldir gave a silent signal, and they drew together and took out their own weapons. But Cadhríen noticed that Celeborn did not draw his sword; he only placed his hand on its hilt and stood up tall, looking keenly in the direction of the disturbance.

“Who goes there?” came a harsh voice with a slight accent, but it was only harsh in its tone – it was a female voice, deep and clear. Astonishingly, Cadhríen could not see a trace of the figure that had spoken. There was nothing there; just shifting shades of green and brown, the colours of the forest. Her eyes roved the branches.

“The Company of Celeborn, of the Golden Wood,” their leader replied, still only resting his hand lightly on his blade. “Your brethren.”

At last the mysterious Elf appeared, stepping out from a tangle of ferns and brambles, where her emerald-green attire had concealed her perfectly. She was not tall, but she looked lithe and powerful. The Lórien Elves studied her with interest. A weak ray of sunlight pierced the canopy and glinted in her jewel-red hair. Her features were strange; her ears aquiline and more pointed than theirs were, her eyes large and dark, her nose and brows and cheekbones striking and prominent.

The Elf’s expression softened slightly when she saw them properly and took them in: their faces pale and uncertain, their thin, grey cloaks long and flowing – and, it had to be admitted, unsuitable for travelling through dense, clawing woodland. But her mouth set grimly again as she approached them and shouldered her bow, looking Celeborn up and down with what Cadhríen considered a surprising lack of deference.

“Yes, we have been expecting you,” she said, turning her rich, brown eyes on the others and assessing their weapons. “Your messenger, Amrohil, is with us.”

Cadhríen felt relief flare in her chest; they were not to be imprisoned!

“But we had thought you would go east around the mountains,” she continued, “and come upon us from the direction of the River Running. It is safer; there are fewer spiders that way. Why didn’t you?”

The maiden’s eyes glinted in the same way Mîreth’s sometimes did, with the spark of youth. But there was something else in her gaze and manner, too, Cadhríen thought. Something deep down. She could not tell what it was.

“We saw goblins on the Forest Road,” came Haldir’s voice. He had stepped forward, and still held his bow nocked, though it was lowered. “We came north of it, and did not want to cross it again, nor to pass too close to the mountains.”

The red-haired Elf appraised him, glancing down at his intricate baldric, the delicate engravings on his bow. Her own bow was simpler, rough-hewn to their eyes, and her leather jerkin was scuffed and nicked, doubtless from many forays into the forest. “Very well,” she said after a moment, “then you did right. But it is not safe in these parts, where the spiders gather at night. We should make haste east – our halls are but twenty miles that way.”

“We have survived thus far,” replied Haldir, his voice clipped, “and have survived worse than a few spiders. We were chased by red-eyed wolves into the trees far south of here. My Lord and I saw them off.”

The maiden looked amused. “Worse?” She turned and beckoned a finger above her shoulder, bidding them to follow, stepping lightly over the leafy ground and springing over fallen logs with practised ease. “Keep that opinion if you will, but know that it is wrong.”

Haldir scoffed quietly, exchanging a look with Eärfin, a tall Elf with hair the colour of the evening star, who was a guard in the Lord and Lady’s house in Caras Galadhon.

Cadhríen set off among the company, looking curiously at the Mirkwood Elf’s green-clad back. The stranger was both familiar and unfamiliar in dress and appearance. They were clearly kin, with their pointed ears and agile movements, and their choice of weapons and soft fabrics. But in other ways they were alien to each other: their accents, their features; the Lórien Elves’ grey contrasted with this maiden’s green and dun. It was bewildering, and Cadhríen wondered what would await them at these so-called ‘halls’. They sounded grand, though how could anything grand exist in this dank and twisted place?

At her side, Haldir was staring at the maiden’s back, too, though his face was pinched and disapproving; and when Cadhríen shot him a wavering smile, which was meant to be reassuring, he returned it only reluctantly, his brows drawn together in concern.


	5. The Halls of the Elvenking

Her name was Tauriel, they discovered. Celeborn was the first to ask her, a few miles east of where she had come upon them.

She was a hunter, she told them when they stopped briefly to rest; but she had once led the Border Guard, about seventy years ago. What had happened to cause her change of position they did not find out; her expression turned dark and closed while she was speaking, and no one, not even Haldir, had the gall to ask her.

She told them she lived in the Elvenking’s Halls, ‘by the mercy of her king’, but when Eärfin pressed her on what the halls were like, she shushed him – much to Cadhríen’s disapproval – and spent the rest of the journey slightly ahead of them, bow drawn and head tipped to the side, listening carefully.

They saw no spiders, however, and Cadhríen was relieved, though Haldir looked a little disappointed to have been denied the chance to prove his mettle against them. As the group drew towards the far eastern side of the forest and passed into what Cadhríen assumed was the Elvenking’s territory, the trees around them turned mostly to beeches and oaks. The trunks became well-spaced, and more sunlight filtered down through the leaves to illuminate the forest floor. It was far more pleasant than the gloomy tangle further west and south, though it did not match the beauty of home. The light here was greenish and uncanny, not the pale silver-gold she was used to. And there were no _mellyrn_ here; no familiar, grey, ancient trunks topped with the yellow blossom of spring. The trees here felt young and watchful. It made her wary.

As they walked, they saw the remnants of _telain_ – flets – in the branches above them, and some old dwellings on the ground, made of wood. Tauriel barely glanced at them as they passed. “Some of us once lived out here, in the forest,” she said, catching Haldir’s questioning eye. “But the shadow of Mirkwood grows and spreads its tendrils ever further, and now we live together in the Elvenking’s Halls, where it is safer.” Her voice had grown quiet, tinged with sadness. “We hardly open our doors to any folk, these days.”

“Then we are grateful for your hospitality,” said Celeborn. He was a little way behind, walking with Cadhríen.

Tauriel did not look back. “Our king has not yet closed himself off from our kinfolk, nor the Men of the Long Lake, with whom we still trade.” There was a short pause. “Mercifully.”

Her _‘yet’_ hung between them all, uncomfortable in the wafting spring air. Cadhríen did not look at Celeborn, though she could sense him, pensive and expectant, beside her.

They continued along the rushing river. When they came down into a wide, green valley filled with oaks, they were met suddenly by two more Elves, dressed in shifting greens and browns, curved bows held out in front of them with arrows nocked and ready.

“Are these our Southern visitors?” said one, brown-haired and regal-looking, with an ornate brooch at his throat. Cadhríen thought he looked like a leader of some sort; his gauntlets and baldric marked him out as a warrior. In his manner, though, he was not polite. He looked them over with no small amount of disdain, and his voice was laced with something close to condescension.

Haldir bridled, but Tauriel stepped in front of him before he could reply.

“They are. Will one of you run ahead to warn the king of their arrival?”

The second Elf, a golden-haired female, nodded curtly and sprang away, disappearing through the bracken that coated the floor of the wood.

“I am Feren,” the haughty male said. “Captain of the Border Guard. They are expecting you, down in the halls.” His eyes lingered on Celeborn, and, finally, he placed a hand to his heart and nodded in greeting. “You will excuse me if I do not accompany you there. I have many duties to attend to. Tauriel will show you the way.”

He and Tauriel exchanged some brief, muttered words that the Lórien Elves could not hear, before Feren strode away beneath the trees, bow out in front of him. Tauriel beckoned them on, and they followed the river downwards, over steeper and steeper ground, until they came upon a clear path that cut in front of them, going north to south. They joined it, and a short distance onward the ground fell away dramatically and they found themselves standing at the edge of a deep crevasse, through which the Forest River flowed, dark and swift beneath them. Ahead was a narrow stone bridge that led over the gorge to a pair of mighty doors, built into the side of the rocky cliff. Guards stood stationed outside the entrance, gazing keenly across at the newcomers. One raised a hand in greeting, and Tauriel returned the gesture.

As they crossed the bridge, Cadhríen brushed the dirt from her cloak and jerkin, and tried not to look as apprehensive as she felt. So they _did_ live underground. Or, at least, under-hill. Celeborn had confirmed as much back at Caras Galadhon, but she had not truly been able to believe it until now – now that she was here and faced with it. The guards studied the company curiously as they gathered before the entrance, Celeborn at the head of the group. Then the doors were pulled open with a groan, revealing a shadowy, high-ceilinged passage within.

Tauriel led them inside, and when the great doors were closed behind them, the oppressive feeling that had plagued Cadhríen in the wilds of the forest returned. The Elvenking's Halls stretched out ahead: paths and walkways carved into living rock, the roof of the cavern so far above them as to be nearly invisible. It was gloomy, but there were red torches burning on the pillars and archways around them, and the air did not feel as stuffy as it had in the woods; a faint, cold breeze blew in from somewhere. No – it was the shadows that made her uncomfortable; they gathered in the corners and pooled in the passageways, in the gaps between the torches. Were a gust of wind to blow out the lights, the whole place would be plunged into blackness. It was unnatural. It was… unseemly. She looked up at the dark ceiling overhead. How could an Elf be content so cut off from the stars? “We are a long way from the Golden Wood, are we not?” she heard Haldir murmur, and they exchanged a quick glance. If Tauriel, walking just ahead, had heard him, she gave no sign.

They wound through the cavern to its rear. To their left and right, doors and arches led off into the depths of the hill, to dark hallways and chambers that rang with voices and the light patter of feet.

They soon reached a raised, flat platform, surrounded on all sides by decorated pillars. Royal guards in ceremonial garb stood at intervals around its edge, holding tall, wickedly-sharp spears. Cadhríen watched them warily as the company ascended and gathered on the dais. Before them, a curving set of steps led steeply up to a throne carved of wood. But the person sat upon it was hidden behind another figure, fair-haired and masculine, standing partway up the steps, facing away from them. His body blocked their view of what had to be the king. The two appeared to be arguing.

“That is a mistake,” the figure on the stairs said, his voice low. It had a hard edge. “We cannot –”

“I will not tell you again, Legolas,” came the reply, its tone equally acerbic. “The decision is mine and mine alone, and we must –”

“Father, at least consider –”

Tauriel cleared her throat, and the Elf before the throne fell silent and glanced over his shoulder. The red torchlight flickered on his profile, which was sharply defined.

“Ah,” came the voice from the throne, and the Elvenking stood up. He was very tall, and at last they were able to see him clearly. Long, silver-blonde hair flowed down his shoulders, ending just past the breast of his intricately embroidered robes. It framed a pale, pointed face, ethereal in its beauty, set with blue eyes that looked like winking jewels below strong, dark brows. He wore a crown of spring wildflowers – white, blue and lavender – and held a staff of whittled oak.

“Our cousins from the South,” he said, waving away the younger Elf – Legolas – as he started down the steps. His voice echoed uncannily in the cavern.

Legolas, who had to be the king’s son, since he had addressed him as _Father_ , came down onto the dais and looked hard at the visitors, paying particular attention to their weapons. He resembled his father little, save for his colouring, and was dressed in green and brown, like Tauriel and the other Wood-elves they had seen. He was wearing nothing to mark him out as of royal blood, which Cadhríen thought very odd. She regarded him curiously in return.

At the front of their little group, Celeborn placed a hand to his chest and lowered his forehead. “King Thranduil. My heart is glad to see you again, after so long. I thank you for receiving us as guests in your… charming home.” Their leader glanced around and tried to look as though he meant it.

The small smile on the Elvenking’s face looked forced. He appraised Celeborn quickly, taking in his silver-grey travelling clothes, his polished circlet and the long sword at his side. Then he turned his ice-blue eyes on the rest of their party. Cadhríen wished she had not stood so near the front. She nearly shuddered under the king’s penetrating gaze. The sight of their travel-worn garments and now-shabby belongings seemed to satisfy him, for some reason unknown, and he came regally down the remaining steps and returned Celeborn’s gesture of greeting.

“You are welcome here, Celeborn of Lothlórien, and your companions.” One of his eyebrows lifted slightly, and he nodded in the direction of a shadowed passage nearby. “I would ask to what we owe the pleasure of your visit, but your fine messenger here has already… filled us in.”

A familiar, dark-haired Elf stepped forward and approached the dais, relief and gratification painted equally across his features.

“Ai, am I glad to see you all!” he said, and Haldir ran forward and embraced him.

“Amrohil! Greetings, my friend!”

They clustered around him and clapped him on the back, asking after his health and his journey.

“There will be time to regale each other with tales of our travels later,” Celeborn said firmly.

The ghost of another smile touched Thranduil’s lips. “Indeed. And no business today, nor tomorrow; not before you have settled in properly.”

At Celeborn’s nod, the king turned to Tauriel, and his gaze hardened upon looking at her. “My thanks for guiding our guests so expertly, Tauriel, but they have need of you no longer. You are dismissed.”

Cadhríen was surprised at his abruptness, and she could see her fellow Lórien Elves were too, save Amrohil; but Tauriel and Legolas appeared impassive. As the red-haired maiden gave a nod and strode across the dais past them, Cadhríen thought she saw a flicker of something – sorrow? regret? – in her wide, brown eyes, but then it was gone, and Tauriel’s footsteps were echoing off up the passage and away.

Puzzled, Cadhríen looked back at Legolas, and, noticing the movement, he very briefly caught her eye. His were blue, like his father’s, and they glittered as they reflected the torchlight. He was older than Tauriel; she could tell. His gaze held more memory. But in that second, as Tauriel’s footsteps died away, he looked… angry. Coiled with tension. She hastily looked away.

Thranduil clapped his hands, breaking the silence. “Now, then. I expect you will all want hot baths. Follow Amrohil – he knows his way around.” He turned and began to climb back up to his lofty throne. “We have a feast planned for this evening, as I expect you are all tired of waybread, too, yes?”

Cadhríen quickly forgot the prince’s ire, and felt her heart warm in her chest. A bath! And proper, hot food! She did not know what they liked to eat here, but they were Elves, after all, so it could not be too unusual. In fact, she thought she could just detect the faint smell of roasting meats as she turned and followed the company down off the dais, Amrohil leading the way ahead of them. Her stomach grumbled in anticipation, and Haldir, who had heard it, grinned and took her arm.

The king and his son watched them go, in silence.


	6. Feasting and Fire

“Is there any greater pleasure in life than a steaming bath and a cup of sweet tea?”

Cadhríen sighed and lounged back in the soapy water in her high-sided, clawfoot tub, feeling the knots and aches in her muscles slowly dissipate. She took a long sip from the painted porcelain teacup perched at her side. The drink was warming and pleasant, though a little too earthy for her taste – not quite the delicate balance of herbs she was used to at home.

The blonde Elf nearby, who had her own tub, too, raised an eyebrow as she scrubbed at her grimy elbows. “I can think of a few things. And anyway, mine is not hot enough, and there’s a blasted great tap sticking into my back.”

One of the male Elves of their party, concealed behind the tall, wooden screen hung with washcloths that separated them, had clearly heard them above the raucous chatter in the bath-hall, as they heard a low snigger.

“How are your baths in there?” the maiden called, and Cadhríen shushed her and tried not to laugh.

“Hot enough, milady,” came the answer. “Come and get some of our water, if it pleases you!”

There was a chorus of cheers and guffaws from behind the screen, and Cadhríen’s companion – Menedhel, a healer that lived in the south of Caras Galadhon – grinned at the sight of her new friend’s pink cheeks and flicked a few drops of water at her. They were the only two females in Celeborn’s company, and they had barely spoken on the journey, having not been acquainted with each other before; but now that they had been forced together by circumstance, they were finding that they got on quite well.

“You ladies-in-waiting are very prim,” Menedhel said, sinking a little lower in her bath with a smirk. “What are you all ‘waiting’ for, anyway?”

Cadhríen gave her a wry look. “Not waiting _for_ anything – waiting _on_ someone: the Lady Galadriel.”

“Ai,” Menedhel said, and heaved a sigh. “I would not do that job for a thousand hot baths and cups of tea.” She reached over the edge of her tub, picked up the rough bronze ewer beside it and poured herself more water. Steam rose in front of her in tendrils.

Cadhríen lay back and stared up at the carved stone ceiling above them, her thoughts turning to home: to Mîreth and Gilrendel and Nimwen; to the grey trunks of the _mellyrn_ like pillars in the night, their leaves wafting in the tepid breeze; to Galadriel. “It can be hard at times,” she said quietly, “but they are my family. I would not give it up for the world.”

Shadows crept across the ceiling, reminding her of the metres of rock between them and the sky above. Her water was beginning to cool, too, she noticed. Small wonder, down in these hollows of stone. Shivering, she reached for the ewer.

*

Evening found the Lórien Elves gathered together in a small anteroom before a crackling fire, questioning Amrohil while they waited to be summoned to dinner. Cadhríen had changed into a long-sleeved dress she had brought from home, which she now found was far too light and airy for the Elvenking’s frigid chambers. She had also dried and combed out her mahogany hair, which hung clean and straight about her shoulders.

“How have you been spending your days?” Menedhel asked their messenger, glancing around sceptically at the thick stone walls; the reddish torches that gave barely enough light to read by.

“Aside from keeping watch for you all?” Amrohil replied from his armchair, a glint in his eye. “Accompanying them on hunts, mostly. You know their king rides out with them on occasion, at their head?”

Cadhríen was one of a half-dozen Elves who raised their eyebrows and pursed their lips in disapproval. “How… rustic,” she murmured, but only Haldir, who was sitting close by on a pile of cushions, heard her. He suppressed a smile. She remembered the woodland greens and browns that the king’s son had been wearing on their arrival – no princely embroidery; no silver or jewels; certainly no crown. The only royal heir she had glimpsed before him had been Celebrían, the Lord and Lady’s daughter, and she had been grand and beautiful to behold. But they did not speak of her in Lórien any longer; not since she had gone west.

Cadhríen chanced a glance at Celeborn, who was sitting in the corner, leaning back in his chair. His eyes were distant. He appeared deep in thought, and a little troubled, and no one disturbed him.

“What do you think the king and his son were quarrelling about, when we came upon them?” said one of the Elves, and Cadhríen looked back at the group with interest; that brief interchange on the dais had intrigued her, too.

“What else,” Amrohil said darkly, “but our visit – our reason for being here? The king knows of our proposal; I told him. I have not spoken with him since, but it seems to me he has already made up his mind about it, for according to rumour he has implied our company will not need to stop here long.”

“But which way is his mind made up?” said Menedhel. “With us or against?”

Cadhríen shifted on her cushion and muttered, “It sounded to me like it is the prince who is against us, and is trying to change his father’s mind.”

“To I, too,” said Amrohil, turning his dark eyes on her, “though Legolas has not hinted at it to me. We have ridden out together on two hunts, and he has always been very pleasant.”

There was a moment of silence, and some of them looked at Celeborn, but the Lord of the Wood said nothing; his gaze was still far-off, his brow slightly furrowed.

Cadhríen drew lines in the dust on the stone-flagged floor. “That hunter,” she said, “who led us through the wood. Tauriel. The king was not kind to her. Do you know why?”

Amrohil looked unhappy. “I cannot find it out,” he said. “I think something must have happened. She may have displeased him at one time.”

“She told us she used to be a border guard,” put in Haldir. “Their captain, in fact.”

“Is that right?” Amrohil looked thoughtful, his eyes on the door to the antechamber.

Finally, Celeborn’s low voice issued from the corner, his words tinged faintly with irritation. “I have never heard so much idle speculation from those who should know better.”

The Elves fell quiet, looking abashed, and Cadhríen exchanged a glance with Haldir. After a moment, someone began to sing softly – a song of home – and thereafter no one spoke.

*

“The finest Dorwinion wine,” the deep-voiced, silver-haired Elf said, drawing himself up proudly beside the banqueting table. He had introduced himself as Galion, the Elvenking’s butler: the keeper of his household, table and wine cellar. “All the way from the western shores of the Sea of Rhûn.”

Cadhríen watched as he poured large measures of rich, red liquid into their goblets, serving Thranduil, who sat at the head of the table, first; then Celeborn, then Legolas, and then the rest of the Lórien Elves, who had been seated near the king, scattered among the highest-ranking Elves of his halls.

To her dismay, she had been placed next to Feren, the haughty guard captain they had met in the woods earlier, though on her other side was Haldir, which made up for it a little. On Haldir’s other side was Celeborn, who in turn was seated next to the Elvenking himself, and Cadhríen smoothed the fabric of her dress compulsively, her skin prickly with apprehension at being so near to him; at being under that arctic gaze once more.

Opposite her sat Legolas, who had changed his dark greens and browns for a simple, pale tunic, and on his right was a raven-haired Elf-lord she had not been introduced to. On the prince’s left was Eärfin, who noticed Cadhríen’s hands twisting in her lap and raised one thin, golden eyebrow, almost imperceptibly. She gave him a quelling glare and looked away. He was always so cool and collected; she often wished she had half his composure.

Tauriel was nowhere to be seen.

Thranduil stood, and the conversation down the table died gradually away.

“I am sure you will all gladly join me in a toast to our guests,” the king said, raising his goblet, “with whom we are honoured to renew our acquaintance, after so long a period of estrangement.” His regal features were impassive. Torchlight flickered, shadowing his cheekbones and his brow. “May they enjoy their visit, and may their business here find a swift and… satisfactory conclusion.”

His eyes found Celeborn’s, and he tipped his head slightly in acknowledgement, though his gaze did not hold much warmth. Cadhríen did not know why, or even if she was merely imagining it, but everything the Elvenking said, every look he gave them, seemed cut through with a faint undertone of…  something unpleasant. Insincerity? Or just haughtiness? In any case, it was barely detectable, and if Celeborn had noticed it, he gave no sign.

“To our guests,” the Mirkwood Elves echoed in a low rumble, and everyone took a sip of their wine. Cadhríen almost choked as the liquid touched her tongue. It was nothing like the light, floral honey-wine that was popular at home. This was strong, dark and woody. She tasted spices, and just a hint of rich sweetness melded with the tang of ripe berries. It seared her throat as it went down, and she placed her goblet slowly back on the table, fighting to mirror Eärfin and keep her expression determinedly nonchalant. She could sense the prince opposite her, and the captain next to her, looking her way.

“How do you like our wine?” came Legolas’s voice, and she raised her eyes to meet his. She didn’t know whether it was the conversation her company had had about him earlier, or the slight spark of a challenge in his smiling eyes, but she felt a flicker of irritation.

“Not unpleasant,” she replied, pretending to study the goblet. “Just… different.” _Coarse. Inferior_. The words she really wanted to use hung silently in the air; but she was a High-Elf, and it was in her nature to be polite.

The prince’s smile grew for a second, as though he suspected she could not handle its strength and depth of flavour; as though he knew she was attempting to save face. His eye caught the smug guard captain’s – Feren’s – and her irritation grew.

“We have not been introduced,” Legolas said, “though I think you met our captain here in the forest earlier?” At her curt nod, he placed a palm to his chest and nodded in return. “I am Legolas. Thranduil is my father.”

She remembered the fleeting argument they had interrupted earlier, on the steps up to the throne; those snatched words – _that is a mistake_ – and her eyes briefly narrowed. So he had set himself against them and their proposal already, before his father had even sat down with Celeborn to discuss it? He had made up his mind that his people did not need their help, based on nothing but Amrohil’s report, and before even hearing a fuller explanation? She had never thought to encounter an Elf as stubborn as a Dwarf, but here was one in front of her! She returned his smile, though she knew it did not reach her eyes, and took another sip of the heady wine, looking at him over the rim of her goblet.

His own smile faded slightly at her lack of response, but before he could say something else, Feren, who was serving himself slices of cooked meat from a platter deposited in front of them, said: “And what are your names?” He looked across the table at Eärfin, who was the tallest and broadest of them all. “You have the look of a warrior about you.”

Eärfin laughed lightly. “I would not say that. Haldir here is the warrior.” He pointed with his fork. “One of our marchwardens. I am Eärfin, a guard in the House of Lord Celeborn and the Lady Galadriel. And this is Cadhríen, one of Galadriel’s trusted ladies-in-waiting.”

A few pairs of eyes turned in her direction, curious. She had not voiced it, of course, but she had noticed the absence of any ladies’ maids in the Elvenking’s Halls. Indeed, of any Lady. Who or where Thranduil’s wife was, she had no idea. But it was a little odd: a palace without a queen.

Her eyes met Legolas’s momentarily as she thought it; he was not smiling any more.

“‘Marchwarden’, is it?” Feren continued, leaning forward to study Haldir with interest. He was wearing a small, pompous smirk. “That is a quaint term. Tell me, what sorts of threats do you deal with, down in the south?”

She could already tell where this was going to go, and, evidently, so could Haldir; he caught her eye, his expression exasperated, as she reached out to serve them both some meat and a few spoonfuls of an unfamiliar, pale vegetable.

“Orcs, for the most part,” her friend said, shooting her a grateful smile as she piled food onto his plate. She could sense Legolas’s gaze on her as she did so, but she did not look up. “Thankfully, their feet have not yet sullied our woodland, though we are spotting them near our northern borders in ever greater numbers. Moria is not far from us, and that is a black place these days.”

Feren raised a thin, brown eyebrow, then smiled indulgently. “Indeed. Orcs.” His eyes slid over Haldir’s profile. “How fortunate you are that your borders remain unbreached, and that Orcs are the worst that plague you.” He took a bite of his meat. “We have been forced by necessity to hone our skills in combat beyond those of any other free peoples in Middle-earth, for the shadow grows deep under our own boughs.”

Eärfin coughed; whether in outrage or amusement, Cadhríen could not tell, though she suspected it was the latter. There was a soft _clink_ as Haldir put down his knife.

“Forgive me, but I think you are mistaken,” the marchwarden said, his voice quiet but steady. She knew him well enough to recognise the anger simmering beneath his calm exterior. “The Galadhrim’s prowess with bow and blade is well-renowned, and easily the equal of your own people’s. It’s possible you have not heard the tales, this far north.” He picked up his cutlery again. “We shall have to sing them to you.”

“I hardly –”

“Perhaps,” came Legolas’s voice, cutting across Feren’s indignant one, “you would like to join us on a patrol on the morrow, Haldir of Lórien. I myself am eager to witness the prowess you speak of; for I, at least, have heard the stories.”

Cadhríen looked sceptically at the prince as he drank from his goblet, but his blue eyes, which met hers over its rim, gave nothing away.

“I would be honoured,” Haldir answered shortly, spearing a vegetable with unnecessary force.

The rest of the feast passed without further provocation, much to Cadhríen’s relief. Feren turned to speak to the Elf on his other side, and Eärfin engaged Legolas in conversation about the food. The pale vegetables turned out to be large mushrooms, cooked in strong, woody herbs, which she had never seen at a feast at home; and the meat was apparently wild hare, which had been steeped in garlic. Everything they ate and drank was so boldly flavoured, so rich and sharp and unfamiliar to her palate, that by the time Galion had clapped his hands to summon the servants and the dishes began to be cleared away, her head was almost swimming and her mouth tingled with the heat from the garlic and pepper, and the spices in the wine.

As they all stood, Legolas gestured to a vaulted doorway at the end of the hall, beyond which the warm, bright glow of several fires and many torches could be seen.

“A number of us gather in that parlour in the evenings, for music and talking and song. You are welcome to join us.” His gaze moved from Eärfin to Haldir, and then to Cadhríen, whom he studied for a moment, that faint glint of a challenge in his eyes again.

“I shall join you,” said Eärfin, draining the last of his goblet of wine.

Cadhríen quirked an eyebrow at him and inclined her head ever so slightly towards Feren, who was striding off towards the parlour, in conversation with the dark-haired Elf-lord that had been sitting opposite Haldir. Eärfin half-smirked and lifted his shoulders, as if to say, _I know, but it can’t be helped._

“I fear I must retire,” Haldir said, with an apologetic gesture. “We did not get much rest on our journey, particularly towards its end. Eärfin here is used to standing watch at night, and can better forego sleep than the rest of us.”

“Yes,” put in Cadhríen shortly. “I, too.”

Legolas and Eärfin bade them goodnight, and, along with a sizeable number of their tired-looking company, Cadhríen and Haldir were led on a long, winding route through the caverns to a series of low-ceilinged, circular rooms, in which couches, cushions, beds and blankets had been liberally scattered. Their belongings had been brought in, and Cadhríen found hers in the smallest of the round chambers, along with Menedhel’s, though her fair-haired friend was nowhere to be seen – she was no doubt one of the few that had joined Eärfin in the parlour.

Despite her weariness, slumber took hours to come. She was used to sleeping up high: off the ground, not under it. She was used to hearing the leaves on the trees rustle around her as she drifted off; to feeling the breeze, wafting in through the open arches of her bedchamber, play across her face. No pale starlight or moonlight illuminated her room here, only the red-gold glow of a slowly dying torch flame.

She watched the shadows dance on the walls and thought of the firelight flickering on the Elvenking’s sharp profile at the banquet. She thought of Feren’s just-perceptible sneer, of Legolas’s guarded eyes, and then she thought longingly and painfully of home, until the chamber at last grew dark, and sleep stole slowly over her.


	7. Dust and Dirt

It was strange, waking in cold darkness under stone.

She knew she had had strange dreams in the night, too, but she could not remember them, and she lay for a moment on the long couch along the wall, waiting to see if they would come back to her; waiting for her eyes to get used to the darkness.

A slim, blonde-haired figure lay feet away on a low bed, covered by several blankets: Menedhel. She was fast asleep. Cadhríen did not remember her coming in – she and Eärfin, and whoever else had joined the Mirkwood Elves in the parlour, must have stayed up long into the night singing and harping.

She lay there for half an hour before a servant came in to light the lamps and torches, and he had brought with him a simple breakfast of bread, cheese and fruit. There was no way to tell, down here, what time of day it was; but when she asked, the servant reported that it was just past dawn, and she sat up under her blanket and felt just about refreshed, despite the hours she had lain awake in the night thinking of their cold reception by the Elvenking, and of home.

Menedhel stirred as the torches flared to life and the servant left, shutting the oak door behind him.

“Ai, my head,” she groaned quietly, rolling over and blinking at Cadhríen in the wavering orange glow. Her face was pale and drawn. “You know, that wine becomes far tastier after you’ve had two or three cupfuls.” She stretched out under her covers and put a hand to her brow. “I don’t know how the Dorwinions do it.”

“Nor the Elvenking,” said Cadhríen, rising and beginning to rummage through her belongings. “He must have had twice that amount just at the banquet – did you see?”

"He is used to it, I suppose," Menedhel said, still massaging her forehead as she sat up. "They said last night that it is his pride and joy, and he can go on drinking it all night if he pleases. They said there were supply problems once, long ago, and the butler – Galion – almost got it in the neck."

Cadhríen laughed, pulling a thicker, warmer dress than the previous day's out of her bundle. "It sounds like it loosened his subjects' tongues, at least..."

They washed, dressed and ate, and Menedhel spoke of the other stories their hosts had told them and the songs they had sung. Some time later, the servant came back, cleared away their plates and told Cadhríen that Lord Celeborn was waiting for her in the main hall, "though he bids you not to rush, as his business is not urgent."

All the same, Cadhríen hastily tidied her belongings away and made her bed before wishing Menedhel a good day. She hated to keep her Lord, or her Lady, waiting.

She followed the servant out into the shadowed passageway, where a line of reddish torches had been lit, and tried to remember the route back to her bedchamber as she hurried along behind him, for she did not want to have to be led everywhere for the rest of their stay – she knew how much of a hindrance that would have been for her and her fellow maids, in the Great House at Caras Galadhon, in Lórien.

As she rounded a corner into the antechamber off the main hall, where they had gathered and conversed the evening before, she almost ran into Haldir, who had come up from a different passage and was striding the same way she was, dressed in his marchwarden’s greys. His _mallorn_ bow was in his hands, his quiver strapped tightly to his back.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, putting out a hand to steady herself. “I forgot you were to join the prince on a patrol today.”

“Yes,” he said, though he did not look enthused about it. “They are all waiting for me, apparently. They usually ride out at dawn and do not return until dinner.” He raised a hand in farewell as he jogged across the chamber.

She only had time to call, “Stay safe!”, thinking uneasily of the spiders, before he disappeared out of sight.

Celeborn turned out to be waiting on the Elvenking's dais. Cadhríen looked warily up at the lofty, carven throne as she stepped onto the stone platform, but the king was not there. Only his helmeted ceremonial guards, standing motionless at their posts, were present, their eyes impassive above their visors.

"Thranduil is in his study this morning, discussing matters of his household with Galion," Celeborn said. "Since we have agreed not to begin our business until tomorrow, I thought I would take the opportunity to explore his library. Would you like to join me?"

She blinked at him. Galadriel had known for some time of her penchant for books – particularly rare and unusual ones – and maps of far-off lands; and she had assumed the Lady of the Wood had told her husband, for they had allowed her to peruse his collection, and even borrow tomes when he was not using them. But to be permitted – no, _invited_ – to browse the library of another Elven ruler… why, that was a great honour.

“I would dearly like to,” she replied, her surprise and enthusiasm clear in her tone. “Thank you.”

Celeborn smiled and extended an upturned palm towards the rear of the cavern.

They stepped off the dais and made their way down a twisting walkway into the maze of dimly-lit passages ahead; but Cadhríen heard footsteps behind them as they went, and, looking over her shoulder, she saw one of the armoured guards following at a respectful distance. It seemed they were to be accompanied, after all.

“He is very proud, and protective of his possessions,” Celeborn murmured, low enough that the guard could not hear. “At least, that is what Galadriel tells me.”

“I can readily believe it,” Cadhríen answered before she could stop herself, thinking of the Dorwinion wine; but when she glanced over at Celeborn, he was smiling.

The library certainly proved interesting, though it was not as grand or as extensive as the one in the great _mallorn_ at Caras Galadhon. There were slim, faded volumes of poetry in dialects she had not come across at home. There were great dwarven tomes, too, their covers etched with silver runes and their pages filled with narrow, densely-packed symbols that would have taken years to translate. There were intricate maps of the eastern regions of Middle-earth: the lands around the Sea of Rhûn, where the Elvenking’s much-loved wine was shipped from, and the towns and roads around Esgaroth and Dale; details Cadhríen had never seen on maps before. They spent a good few hours browsing, moving among the dusty shelves, and occasionally sitting down with a book at the long, wooden table, overhung with golden lamps, at the chamber’s rear.

Some time in the late morning, Celeborn said that he was going to go for tea, and Cadhríen begged to be allowed to remain in the library, for there was a whole section of Elvish histories that she had not yet looked at. They both glanced at the guard, who had been standing, stock-still and silent, by the door, and eventually he gave a small, curt nod, which Cadhríen took for assent.

She whiled away the next few hours examining detailed records of the past two Ages of Middle-earth, interrupted only by the arrival, in the afternoon, of another plate of bread and cheese and a dish of fruit, brought by a servant, which Celeborn had no doubt arranged for.

By the time she had eaten, returned all the books to their rightful places on the shelves and stretched her stiff limbs and neck, it was late afternoon, and she asked the guard to let her out and show her the route back to the main hall, from where she was sure she could find her own way to her bedchamber to change for dinner.

When they reached the hall, however, she heard voices – loud and exuberant – and they soon came upon a group of Elves dressed in woodland colours, unshouldering bows, baldrics and quivers. They had clearly just come in from the forest, for they were still holding clutches of dead fowl tied by their necks. Haldir was there, and when she caught his eye, she saw that his face was dark and drawn with annoyance.

One of the Elves had a regal-looking stag draped over his shoulders, slain by an expert broadside shot, the gold-feathered arrow still protruding from just behind its shoulder; and when he turned and the light of the torches caught his face and hair, she saw that it was Legolas.

“How was the patrol?” she asked Haldir in a low voice as he came over, having deposited his birds with a servant that had hurried up from the kitchens.

“I need to change,” he muttered shortly in reply, and swept straight past her, making for the shadowed passageway that led to their bedchambers.

Legolas, who had lowered the stag onto a table and was wrapping it in cloth, noticed her standing there and held her gaze for a moment; but her eyes were narrowed with concern for Haldir, and as one of the other Elves clapped the prince on the back and said something to him, she whirled away and hurried after her friend, calling to him to wait for her.

“What on earth is wrong?” she said as she caught him up and fell into step beside him. “What happened?”

“It is nothing,” he answered, hefting his quiver up under his arm, but she saw as she looked at him that there was an odd, strained sort of half-smile on his face in the glow from the torches.

Another servant appeared, walking briskly in the direction of the hall they had just left, and Cadhríen waited for him to pass before continuing.

“Were they teasing?” she asked. “Boasting again, like Feren was last night?” She felt anger flare briefly in her at the memory of the guard captain’s self-satisfied smirks; of the challenge dancing in Legolas’s eyes across the table.

“Ha!” Haldir barked, but his laugh was bitter. “Not teasing.” They rounded a corner into a narrower, more shadowed maze of passages, and he stared straight ahead, distracted, as though playing some scene out in his mind. “The Mirkwood prince is the best shot I think I have ever seen,” he said in a low voice. “Feren was right, at least where the king’s son is concerned. I have rarely seen the like of it.”

“Oh,” she replied, her heart sinking slightly. She thought of the deer back in the cavernous hall, and of the prince’s deft hands wrapping it. “Surely you exaggerate.”

“Not at all,” her friend replied, and his tone was clipped with irritation. “That stag he had – he felled it from more than a hundred yards, and the foliage was not sparse. One shot and it was down, and all as quiet as a mouse and quick as you please.” He hitched his quiver and bow up under his arm again. “I have never seen it done.”

“Well,” she said matter-of-factly, as they crossed a hallway into the stone corridor that led to the guest bedchambers, “it was only a stag – not a moving Orc.”

“Yes,” he acknowledged, but he did not look convinced. As they came upon the door to the bedroom he shared with Eärfin and two other Elves of their party, he sighed, stacked his weaponry against the wall and turned to smile properly at her at last, placing a hand on each of her arms, just above her elbows. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I am being rather foolish.” She gave him a knowing smile in return, and he pulled her into a brief hug. “You are a dear friend, you know. You always know what to say to snap me out of my moods.”

She laughed. “I don’t know about that. Staying here, I feel more apt to join you in them than help you out of them.” She drew back and studied his scuffed garments and the faint smear of dirt on his cheek. “Now go: wash. For you certainly smell like you have been abroad in the forest all day.”

“A charming assessment,” he called after her, laughing, as she turned towards her own room, and she waved a hand above her shoulder before disappearing inside.


	8. Parlour Music

She could smell the braised game birds from several halls away when they were summoned to dinner that evening, and her mouth was already watering as she took her seat at the banqueting table, in the chair she was led to by a servant. Thranduil had moved his guests around: she was no longer next to Haldir and Feren, but found Amrohil to her right, and on her left the golden-haired border guard that had met them in the forest and been sent to warn the king of their arrival.

She suspected the birds were the very same ones the patrol had brought back that afternoon, for they were plump and moist, and tasted very fresh. They had been simmered in a rich, peppery sauce, with a hint of wine and lots of herbs, and there were roots and other vegetables and fruits to go with it. She and those near her at the table spoke little during the meal, so intent were they on the contents of their plates, and it was only as the dishes were just beginning to be taken away that she noticed she had been poured a large measure of wine.

Taking a cautious sip, she glanced around at the assembled Elves, and soon picked out the prince, dressed again in a silvery-pale tunic, some way down the hall, talking and laughing with one of his companions from the patrol. As she lowered her goblet, he caught her gaze, his eyes still dancing with mirth at his neighbour’s joke; and she could tell he was remembering their exchange of the previous evening, as she was. Determined to make her point, she took another gulp of wine – deeper and longer this time, though the liquid burned her throat – and put her cup down, leaning towards Amrohil as she did so.

“Celeborn and the Elvenking will sit down to business tomorrow. Have you discovered anything further about our host’s intentions? Or his son’s?” She kept her voice to a low murmur to avoid being overheard.

Amrohil turned his dark-haired head towards her. “I have not, I am sorry to say. Though I still believe our inclination will turn out to be correct. Let us see what progress Lord Celeborn reports tomorrow.”

Cadhríen ran a finger idly around the rim of her goblet, one elbow on the table. Legolas appeared to be telling a story of his own, now, and had his companion’s rapt attention; but his eyes kept meandering back to hers in the flaring torchlight. His expression was hard to read.

If he was relating what he had seen pass in the main hall on his return from the forest; Haldir’s resentment at his prowess on the hunt (which she still refused to believe had been as impressive as her friend made out)… She felt a hot spark of protectiveness for her friend, and her hand clenched in her lap as she looked away.

She had no excuses ready when she was invited to the parlour after dinner, for she felt well-rested, and, if truth be told, was eager to hear some music for the first time since leaving Lothlórien.

The parlour turned out to be spacious and high-ceilinged, with curving stone walls and several large, crackling fires, by which chairs and divans had been arranged in circles. Iron chandeliers hung above their heads, crowded with candles, and lamps were lit at intervals around the chamber. It was cheery and warm, and she shrugged off the shawl she had taken to wearing about the palace, which had kept off the chill of the less well-heated hallways and passages.

Amrohil had followed her, and they soon gravitated towards Eärfin and Haldir, who were pouring themselves more wine from a pitcher on an elaborately carved table.

Cadhríen had brought her half-full goblet in from the banquet, and she sipped it slowly, glancing around at the parlour’s other occupants. She soon observed that her fellow Lórien Elves seemed equally inclined to gather in groups of their own kin rather than mingle – as did their hosts. There was a large, boisterous circle of Mirkwood border guards and palace staff on the far side of the room; which included Legolas, she noticed, who had come in from the feast just after her. But the Elves of Celeborn’s company were scattered in trios and pairs about the walls, mostly in front of the fires, enjoying some welcome, much-missed warmth. From the snatches of murmured conversation she could hear nearby, it seemed most of those assembled were discussing the talks between Celeborn and Thranduil, which were due to begin on the morrow.

Their goblets refilled, Haldir and Eärfin looked around for some seats, and led Cadhríen and Amrohil over to a motley collection of unoccupied benches and cushioned chairs. Menedhel and another Elf of their party were standing a short distance away, and they wandered over and sat down too, their figures casting long shadows on the carpeted floor.

“Whichever way these talks go,” said Haldir, leaning back in his chair and eyeing the Mirkwood Elves darkly from across the room, “I hope Lord Celeborn will not decide to linger into summer.” He glanced up at the shadowed ceiling above them, and around at the thick stone walls. “One can barely tell what time of year it is down here, let alone what time of day. I don’t know how they stand it.”

Cadhríen made a small noise of assent, but Eärfin cocked an eyebrow at his friend, amused. “What’s got your breeches in a twist?” he asked, his tone light.

A moment later, as though on cue, and much to Haldir’s and Cadhríen’s chagrin, a tall figure appeared at the edge of their circle, a small group of hangers-on in tow. It was Legolas, and he was smiling. Behind him stood Feren, who looked down his long nose at them.

“I fear we are not playing our proper part as hosts, gathered over there,” the prince said, touching his palm to his chest in a brief gesture of greeting. As his blue eyes took them in, his gaze caught Cadhríen’s, and she regarded him coolly, her own hands folded in her lap. His smile did not falter. “I trust you do not mind if we join you?”

It was Eärfin that answered – ever the adjudicator. “Not at all.”

The prince and his companions sat down, some on the remaining chairs, others cross-legged on cushions on the floor, and from somewhere distant a harp started up. Its jovial, fast-paced tune drifted towards them, faint beneath the hum of chatter in the hall.

Legolas looked at Haldir. “Yesterday you said you had some songs of your home to sing to our guard captain, here.” The golden glow from the fires lit his face as he spoke. “Come, let us hear one.”

Cadhríen watched him through slightly narrowed eyes. Whether this was an attempt to be amiable or confrontational, she could not tell. Feren did not seem happy, so perhaps – unlikely though it seemed – it was the former.

Haldir looked back at the prince for a long, drawn-out moment, then he took a quick sip of his wine. “Very well,” he said quietly, and was silent for a time as he gathered his thoughts. They listened attentively as he began to chant:

_In Dwimordene, in Lórien_   
_Seldom have walked the feet of Men,_   
_Few mortal eyes have seen the light_   
_That lies there ever, long and bright._

_Galadriel! Galadriel!_   
_Clear is the water of your well;_   
_White is the star in your white hand;_   
_Unmarred, unstained is leaf and land._

_In Dwimordene, in Lórien…_

It went on thus for several verses, and it was a song his fellow southerners knew well, so that near its end some of them joined in, their voices melding sweetly in their little corner of the parlour.

When it ended, Legolas was quiet a moment. Then he spoke softly: “Long have I wished to walk in that fair woodland, under its leaves of gold.”

“It is nowhere surpassed in beauty,” Cadhríen replied, taking even herself by surprise. She thought of the great grey trunks standing like pillars under an awning of blossom; of the stark contrast with Mirkwood’s gnarled and knotted boughs, which cloaked its floor in ever-present shadow. After Feren’s disparaging comments the night before, she found herself eager to extol her beloved homeland.

“The _mellyrn_ of Lothlórien are like no other trees in Middle-earth,” she said. “They keep their leaves in winter, and in the spring, as it is there now, the leaves fall and make a golden carpet; but in their place grow green buds and yellow flowers, and the rivers run cold and clear and strong.”

Legolas turned to her and watched her as she spoke. It was the longest she had held his gaze since their arrival, for she did not look away. “In the summer all is green and grey, but autumn is my favourite season there, when the leaves begin to turn and the air grows cooler. In the evenings the sun sets earlier, and we light our homes and walkways with a hundred silver lamps.” She paused, her eyes still on his in the firelight. “It has a sad feeling to it, though.”

Nobody spoke. The Lórien Elves were thinking of home, and their hosts were sitting in respectful silence. Legolas was still staring at her, and now that her speech was over, she came back to herself and looked away. There were spots of warmth in her cheeks and her skin tingled faintly as she smoothed her dress.

She had not noticed it before, having not had the chance, nor the inclination, to study him in as much detail as she now had; but he was striking in his appearance. He had not the ethereal beauty of his father, nor that towering, willowy gracefulness, but his eyes had captivated her, just for a moment, under the parlour’s chandeliers. They had reminded her of deep pools, reflecting a canopy of winking stars.

“Cadhríen speaks true,” came Amrohil’s voice from beside her, and she blinked and quickly shook off the thought. Striking or not, she mused, the prince was likely not their friend, in the negotiations with Thranduil.

She avoided his eye henceforth, and did not see whether, or how many times, he looked back at her. After a short while the songs turned into stories, and then into tales of heroic deeds. Feren began to insist Legolas tell them of some foe he had defeated at the Battle of the Five Armies – Borg? Dolg? She was no longer paying attention – and once the prince, after some token reluctance, had been successfully persuaded, she made a show of suppressing a yawn and massaging her temples, and got up, muttering to Amrohil and Haldir that she was going to bed.

“I shall too, if this train of conversation continues,” Haldir said under his breath, then raised his voice as he bade her a fond, “Good night.”

The parlour was beginning to empty out as she crossed it and made for the door. The fires were burning low, much of the wine had been drunk, and the servants were loitering, eager to wind down their evening’s duties and start snuffing out the lamps. When she reached the dark archway that led out into the main hall, she chanced a brief glance back into the shadowy chamber. Legolas, who was side-on to her, was still holding court across the room.

But if she had been hoping – which she most certainly was _not_ , she insisted inwardly – for another glimpse of those torch-fire stars in his searching eyes, she would have found herself disappointed; for he was miming the thrust of a knife through the head of the unlucky Borg – or was it Dolg? – and his companions were cheering and laughing, drowning out the merry music of the harp.


	9. Dropping Eaves

Early the next morning, the Elvenking of Mirkwood and the Lord of the Golden Wood sequestered themselves in the king’s study, and did not emerge for many hours. Only the servants were permitted to enter, to keep the lamps lit, stoke the fires and bring platters of tea, bread and fruit.

Cadhríen had found herself a quiet spot in the cosy antechamber off the main hall, in a comfortable chair before the fireplace, and was attempting to occupy her thoughts with a book she had brought with her from Celeborn’s library in Lórien: a short volume of Elvish verse, focusing on the First Age. Its pages were dog-eared and its cover a little faded, for she had borrowed it many times in the past, but she found it a suitable distraction; particularly the Lay of Beren and Lúthien, which, privately, was one of her favourites.

Haldir was beside her on a long, oak bench, polishing his bow and repairing the fletchings on his arrows, which had been damaged in the wolf attack and the hunt he had joined the day before.

There was an irritating, nervous energy about the place that morning, she noticed. Servants hurried to and fro, those tasked with tending to the king casting superior glances at anyone who was not, including the palace’s guests. The other Lórien Elves had mostly congregated in the parlour, where, Eärfin reported, a few games had started up: chess, cards, and a half-hearted riddle contest that nobody involved seemed to be dedicating their full attention to. A few of the Mirkwood Elves had joined them, he said, but a larger group had gone down the river to oversee some trade with the Men of the Long Lake, and they were not expected to return that day.

Around lunchtime, Haldir tried to stop one of the servants on their way through the antechamber, to ask them how things were faring with the talks.

“I am sorry,” came the answer, as the Elf swept imperiously through the room, “it is not my place to say.”

Variants on this reply were parroted back at them by two other servants when they ventured to ask, and eventually Cadhríen could stand the sitting and waiting no longer, and told Haldir that she was going to her bedchamber to rest a while and then change for dinner.

The Elvenking’s Halls were quiet as she made her way through them to the rear of the high-ceilinged cavern, past the dais with its carven throne, over the walkway of curving stone and into the labyrinth of dark passages that led past the library and the king’s chambers.

Just as she passed the library, she heard a disturbance up ahead, around the next bend in the passageway. A door was opening, and low voices were issuing from it. There were hurried footsteps, too, coming up from the other direction; they were quick and light, and belonged to at least two pairs of feet.

She followed the twisting hallway a short way, quiet and tentative, and saw Thranduil and Celeborn on the threshold of what had to be the king’s study; behind them, she could see dark, panelled wood, towering shelves and the low, flickering glow of torches.

As she watched, two more Elves appeared out of the passage ahead: a servant… and the king’s son, Legolas, his face and hair in shadow but recognisable all the same. She took a quick step back to avoid being seen, and looked on as the prince approached the open door.

“My thanks,” Celeborn was saying to the Elvenking, but his voice had a faint, sharp edge to it that she had rarely heard before. “We shall pick up on the morrow, if it suits you?”

“As you wish,” came Thranduil’s reply, and his expression was unreadable in the orange torchlight. But he noticed Legolas, then, and there was a quick flash of something in his eyes: surprise, or perhaps annoyance.

“I would speak with you, Father,” the prince said, his tone almost as hard as Celeborn’s, and Thranduil held out an arm to usher his son inside, though he did not look happy about it.

“On the morrow, then,” the Elvenking said to Celeborn, lowering his forehead and placing a hand to his chest in farewell; then he disappeared into the dim study, shutting the door behind him with just a touch too much force. Muffled murmurs issued immediately from within.

Cadhríen hesitated a moment, then walked forward. “My Lord.”

“Cadhríen.” Celeborn did not seem taken aback by her presence; perhaps he had sensed her standing there. He looked weary, but seemed to be making an effort to keep his expression neutral. “I expect dinner is not far off. I should like to address the group – can you gather them in the antechamber and ask the servants to bring some sweet tea?”

“Of course, my Lord,” she said, tipping her head in acknowledgement. She wanted to ask how the talks had fared there and then, but knew better than to display such impatience. Turning on her heel, she hurried back the way she had come, her thoughts racing.

She didn’t expect there had been any final decision – Celeborn had suggested continuing tomorrow, after all. But what had Legolas been up to? She wondered if he had asked one of the king’s servants to alert him when the rulers were about to emerge. _I would speak with you, Father._ No doubt to find out before anyone else how far the talks had progressed, and continue his attempts to coax the Elvenking to his way of thinking…

Haldir was where she had left him. He had put down his arrows and picked up the book of poetry she’d left open on the bench. He glanced up as she approached, one eyebrow raised. “I never had you pegged for a romantic,” he said, gesturing at her with the book. He looked back at the page, cleared his throat and raised his voice. “ _That in his arms lay glistening…_ ”

“Give that back,” she said hurriedly, snatching it off him. She felt the tips of her ears burn. “The talks have finished – for today, anyway. Celeborn wants to see us all. Help me gather everyone.”

Her friend still looked amused, but he nodded and took up his bow and quiver.

It did not take long to round up the party. Eärfin, Menedhel, Amrohil and a few others were in the parlour, and the rest were conversing in the halls or passing time in their rooms. Cadhríen managed to detain a passing servant long enough to request some tea – the maiden did not look happy about it, but a short time later she appeared balancing a loaded tray, and proceeded to stoke the fire.

Once they were all present and seated, and Celeborn had arrived, poured himself a drink and taken up a position by the fireplace, he began. He kept his voice low, but thankfully they were left mostly alone, and none of the servants or other palace denizens who passed through the chamber came close enough to hear.

“The Elvenking and I spoke for several hours today,” he said. “I won’t pretend it has not been a… difficult start to the proceedings. He insisted on a lengthy preamble – updates on the latest goings-on in our respective lands, that sort of thing. He may be stalling for time, or perhaps seeks details on how many of us there are. I expect he is more than a little keen to discover how… _useful_ we can be to him. But in any case, when we eventually got around to discussing Galadriel’s proposal, he gave no answer either way.”

“At least he has not rejected it outright,” said Amrohil. “And, though I am loathe to admit it, that old saying does hold some truth: _Go not to the Elves for counsel, for they will say both no and yes_.” He tipped his head to the side. “He may respond to another push.”

“Perhaps,” Celeborn agreed. “But there was something about his manner that I…” The Lord of the Wood pondered a moment, then shook his head. “He is difficult to read, but something tells me he does not look upon the proposal favourably. He spent a long time detailing his people’s recent successes fending off exploratory assaults from Dol Guldur. And he spoke of their ongoing battles against the spiders for what must have been close on half an hour.”

Cadhríen saw Haldir give a slight roll of his eyes.

“I listened patiently, for plainly it will do us no favours to offend them.” Celeborn looked pointedly at the marchwarden. “But I cannot say things have begun altogether positively.” He sighed, steepling his fingers. “No matter. We continue tomorrow, and I must ask all of you to display the utmost graciousness in your dealings with our hosts. A wrong move now could throw everything off.”

Haldir looked a little abashed as they all nodded and got up to leave.

When a servant poked their head into the chamber to inform them that dinner would not be long, Cadhríen pulled Amrohil aside before he disappeared to get changed. She told him in an undertone what she had seen pass in the passageway outside the king’s study that afternoon, and they shared a dark look before making for the door.

If the Elvenking happened to reject Celeborn’s proposal tomorrow, she was certain she would know the reason why.


	10. Seeking Starlight

Days passed, and the Elvenking still prevaricated.

Every morning Celeborn would enter the king’s study, and every afternoon he would emerge stone-faced and Legolas would slip in and take his place. No one knew what they discussed.

It was understandable, Eärfin kept saying, that the king’s only son – indeed, his only family member, as far as they could tell – would want daily updates on the progress of the talks. But Cadhríen and Amrohil continued to suspect that the prince was bending his father’s ear, and not to their advantage.

As time went on, Cadhríen found herself beginning to long for home, particularly at night, when the bedchamber was black as pitch and the weight of the rock and stone above her seemed to press down on her mind. Their party had little cause to leave the Elvenking’s Halls, save for hunts, on which only Haldir really proved useful. The rest of them occasionally took walks in the forest, but they were cautioned to stay within earshot of the river. Thranduil claimed the wolves and spiders and other foul things that roamed beneath Mirkwood’s eaves had been growing bolder in recent months.

She felt cooped up; claustrophobic.

It was during their fifth night at the halls that her desire for some fresh air and a glimpse of the stars – just one glimpse – overwhelmed her and spurred her to act.

She had been shifting and turning under her fur-trimmed blanket for hours, listening to Menedhel’s slow, steady breathing and thinking of the breeze wafting in through the open arches of her bedchamber at home. But sleep simply would not come, and the night seemed endless. It must have been well past midnight, perhaps two or three hours or so, when she finally threw off her cover and got quietly to her feet, her elven eyes just managing to pick out the shapes of the room’s furniture in the darkness.

She shrugged a warm cloak on over her nightdress and stepped into the pair of soft boots she’d left standing at the foot of her bed. Then she stole out of the chamber and into the silent, high-ceilinged passageway beyond, where only a few torches had been left burning. Shadows pooled at intervals along the hallways. She heard no footsteps; no whispered voices. Indeed, she saw no one until she reached the great front doors to the halls. Guards stood stationed either side of them, their spears held perfectly upright, their eyes bright behind their burnished helmets.

They looked at her in puzzlement, then darted quick glances at each other.

“You are one of our guests from the Golden Wood,” the one to her left observed, shifting his grip on his spear slightly. “Have you lost your way?”

She hadn’t anticipated this – that she might not be _allowed_ out this late at night.

“No,” she said, tugging her cloak tighter around her and lifting her chin. “I just… can’t sleep, and I need a little fresh air. Just a few minutes out on the bridge, that’s all.” She smiled at them. No reason why she shouldn’t tell them the truth of it.

The guards’ gazes met again. They were uneasy.

“We do not open the doors at night as a rule,” the one on her right said. “Not in these dark days. Only by order of…” He trailed off, studying her intently through his visor.

“Of…?” she prompted lightly, keeping her expression pleasant.

“Well, of the king,” the guard said. “Or his son.”

Cadhríen almost laughed at the thought of waking Thranduil or Legolas up this late to ask permission to take a night-time stroll.

“Never mind,” she said. She was tired and miserable; she had no interest in standing here in the cold to plead her case. She made to turn away.

“Wait,” the other guard put in, shifting his spear again. He had swivelled his helmeted head to catch his companion’s eye. “Given one of our number is abroad this night and due to return before dawn, will we not be opening the doors soon anyway? What does one guest stepping out for some air matter?” He looked back at Cadhríen sternly. “As long you _do_ keep to the bridge.”

The guard to her right raised an eyebrow, then shrugged lightly. His armour creaked. “Very well. But on your head be it, Beredir.”

Cadhríen nodded gratefully. Perhaps, she thought, as they heaved the doors open just enough to allow her through, the Mirkwood Elves had been cautioned to deal delicately with their visitors, just as Celeborn had asked his party to be on their best behaviour with their hosts. In any case, she was to be granted her starlight – and for that she was grateful.

The night air was cool and fresh, and she was faintly surprised to see puddles of rainwater on the bridge. The leaves of the trees clustered on the opposite side of the gully glinted wetly in the moonlight. As the doors closed behind her, she took a few tentative steps forward; it was no longer raining, at least. Far below her, the Forest River, imbued with relentless energy by the spring melt off the mountains, rushed and tumbled and crashed, drowning out all other sound.

She felt damp moss squelch under her booted feet as she walked to the centre of the narrow bridge. Immediately, she felt lighter, more restored, being out here in the open. She tipped her head back and was rewarded by the sight of the navy-black, cloud-scudded sky stretching over her in a wide strip between the canopy to the west and the jagged rock wall behind her. Amidst the clouds were swirls and clusters of _mithril_ -bright stars.

She traced them with her eyes. _At last._

She tried to remember, standing there, how long it had been since she’d last seen them, but she couldn’t quite work it out. Their party had been under-hill in the king’s halls for five days, but before that, how long had they toiled through the stuffy, shadowed wood that now lay all about her? She lowered her gaze to the treeline ahead. The path wound from the edge of the bridge off into darkness. Nothing moved upon it, but she shivered slightly all the same.

The king’s warning came back to her: _Wolves and spiders and other foul things…_

Were they close by now, waiting in the stillness, hoping to come upon some unwary victim that wandered too far from the halls?

Something about that deep darkness called to her, though. Sent a little thrill through her. The guards had said to keep to the bridge, but surely it wouldn’t hurt to wander just a few paces up the path? Stretch her legs and feel the smooth bark of the trees under her fingers? She was thoroughly sick of rock and stone.

She’d stay close to the river, of course. But she longed, now, to hear the chirp of nightbirds and the rustling of animals in the undergrowth; the creak of branches moving in the breeze. All the familiar sounds of a forest – the ones she was used to at home. Standing here, the booming of the river-water blocked all that out.

Cadhríen pulled her cloak around her and walked slowly, steadily, across the bridge to the opposite bank. There, she stood and stared into the black wood, straining to spot any movement; any sign that something wasn’t right. There was nothing.

She started up the path, her keen eyes picking out the trunks and spindly branches either side of her. The sound of the river gradually receded, but she did not go far enough that it was muffled entirely. Among the roots and bushes near the ground, bright pinpricks appeared and blinked at her curiously. When she approached them, they vanished in a rustle of foliage, unseen mouths chirruping in alarm.

When she had ventured as far from the river as she dared, she stopped and leant against the mossy bole of a large tree. But rather than comforting her, it merely made her chilly and damp, and the unfamiliar feel of it, the slightly slimy ridges against her back and palms, only made her pine for the _mellyrn_ she had left behind at home. Tipping her head up, she tried to make out the stars again, but the tangled canopy was too thick, the grasping branches and creepers too intertwined above her.

She closed her eyes; breathed in the scent of the recent rain. And then she heard it: a footfall nearby, and the faint yet unmistakeable crackle of a torch.

Her eyes snapped open. That was too close – how had she not detected it until now? She saw an orange glow appear on the path not ten paces west of her. Whoever or _what_ ever it was must have come suddenly out from between the trees. Springing away from the vine-choked trunk, she barely had time to pull her silver dagger from her belt before the figure with the torch came upon her. And she realised then, with a jolt of understanding, why she hadn’t heard the approach from a hundred yards off.

It was a fellow Elf. The Elf-prince himself, in fact, a long knife held in one hand and the steadily-burning torch in the other.

They stood a few metres apart, watching each other warily in the darkness. The light of the torch formed a golden pool around them; Cadhríen felt adrift in a sea of creeping black.

“Hail,” Legolas said at last, lowering his knife.

She nodded in reply, slowly returning her own blade to its sheath. His blue eyes followed it. “I thought you might have been something sinister,” she said by way of explanation, and his lips quirked slightly, though he didn’t quite smile.

Perhaps he was remembering her cold reception of him at that first dinner; her narrowed eyes in the main hall on his return from the patrol. Celeborn’s voice sounded in the back of her mind: _I must ask all of you to display the utmost graciousness in your dealings with our hosts. A wrong move now could throw everything off…_

Unless it was already too late, she thought darkly, and the prince had succeeded in persuading his father that their interests were not best served by Galadriel’s proposed accord.

She fixed a polite, though somewhat distant, expression on her face as she regarded him in the torchlight. “The guards did say someone would be returning before first light. Have you been on patrol?”

His own countenance flattened, mirroring hers. “Nay.” In one quick movement, he twirled his knife up and over his shoulder, sheathing it high up on his back. “Merely wandering. I find I miss the stars after a while below ground. Over yonder –” he gestured to the east “– the trees thin out around the river, and the sky there opens up.”

She couldn’t stop the ripple of surprise that she knew flitted over her face.

He looked at her curiously, taking in her thick cloak; the mud and leaf litter that clung to her leather boots. “And you? Did not the guards warn you against straying too far from the river at night?”

“They did,” she replied, perhaps a little too haughtily, “but I am not far, and would have gone no further.” She decided not to tell him that the guards had told her to stay on the bridge.

“As to your other question,” she continued, “I… I am out here for the same reason as you, as it happens.” She folded her arms against the damp chill. “I could not sleep, and longed for a glimpse of the stars.”

He fixed her with the same searching gaze that had made her so uncomfortable in the parlour a few nights previously, when she had spoken so passionately of the Golden Wood. The firelight danced and leapt on his fine-boned face, and his dark brows lowered slightly, shading his eyes.

“You miss your home,” he observed.

Cadhríen did not respond, but dipped her own gaze to the shadowed path and to the tiny, blinking eyes that had appeared again among the ferns and thickets lining it.

Legolas cleared his throat. “May I say something?” he ventured, taking a light step towards her and shifting his torch to his other hand.

She glanced up at him warily, feeling her features tighten and her expression grow cool. She pulled her cloak around her, as much to keep off the awkwardness she felt as to block the chill of the night air.

“I rather think we have started off on the wrong foot,” he said abruptly. “If I – or certain others – have said or done something to offend you, I apologise. On my part, at least, it was not intended to be taken so.”

She watched him in the wavering torchlight, her brow quirked slightly in suspicion. “You allude to your friend. The guard captain.”

Legolas looked exasperated, and dug the toe of one of his knee-high boots into the mud. “You should pay no mind to Feren’s bluster. He is proud, yes, but at heart he is a trustworthy and loyal subject of my father. He has a good heart, unlikely though that may seem to strangers.” His gaze rose to meet hers. “I think his needling is borne from unfamiliarity, and perhaps no small amount of insecurity. I think perhaps he feels… threatened.”

“And you do not?” she asked lightly, thinking of his words in the throne room; his visits to the Elvenking’s study. _I would speak with you, Father._

His eyes raked her face for a moment, his expression difficult to read. For a split second, she thought puzzlement had flickered there. Then it was as if a shutter had lowered; his eyes glinted, steel-like, and the line of his jaw twitched.

To her surprise, he gave a short, huffed laugh, shook his head imperceptibly, and gestured to the great doors that lay across the bridge.

“It is late, and I am needed on patrol tomorrow.” His voice was clipped; frost-tinged. “If your… business here is concluded, allow me to light both our paths back.”

It was her turn, now, to look curiously at him. But he did not linger. At her curt nod, he was off, striding down the path towards the bridge, his booted feet hardly making a sound on the cracked and puddle-strewn stone.

She hurried after him, her mood decidedly blackened, and once the guards had responded to his unnecessarily forceful knock by tugging open the heavy doors, she fell back behind him in the winding, cavernous passage, taking a longer and more convoluted route back to her chamber to avoid catching up to him or running into him again in the darkness.

Slumber took far too long to come, and once it did eventually begin to steal over her, she could tell it was nearly morning, for Menedhel had started to shift under her fur blanket and the faint sounds of voices and footsteps could be heard far off in the passages and halls.

But her night-time wanderings, and the hours she had lain awake, had left her tired enough to ignore them, and she eventually slipped into a restless sleep, her dreams full of stars and flaring torchlight and a pair of wary, ice-blue eyes.


	11. For Want of a Washcloth

She slept for most of the morning, but was still heavy-eyed and bleary when she woke.

Menedhel was nowhere to be seen; her fair-haired friend had no doubt risen hours ago. The maiden’s bed was made, her hairbrush discarded on the coverlet, and her boots were missing from their usual spot by the wall. It was dim in the little chamber – a servant normally lit the lamps just after dawn, but it was now so late the flames had burned down low and shadows were pooling in the corners.

She dragged herself out of bed, dressed distractedly and ventured out into the halls, with the vague intention of finding some food and settling down somewhere quiet with a book.

Haldir, it turned out, had left early on that day’s patrol, for the principal reason that Feren would _not_ be among the party. The haughty guard captain was instead prowling the halls, trying to sign anyone with a passing interest in archery up for what he was calling a ‘practice session’ the following afternoon.

Ostensibly, it seemed, this was to be a bonding exercise, first suggested by Eärfin and supported by Celeborn, who was keen for the guests and their hosts to get to know each other better. Feren, in his capacity as head warden, had taken it upon himself to organise the activity; but those of a more discerning nature – such as Cadhríen – knew that, with him at the helm, ‘practice’ would inevitably become ‘contest’, and he would use it as an excuse to show off and boast about the Mirkwood Elves’ prowess with bow and arrow.

Legolas, of course, had been the first Elf that Feren had persuaded to take part.

Cadhríen was already in a foul mood that day, given what had passed in the earliest hours of the morning and her subsequent lack of sleep. It was not at all soothed by Feren accosting her in a passage after lunch and eliciting her agreement to attend his practice the next day.

“Take the spiral stairs to the left just before the library,” he said, his tone saccharine. “It leads eventually to a long terrace cut into the side of the hill.” With a quick sweep of his eyes, he took in her slim frame. “We have plenty of bows to spare.”

Cadhríen smiled, though she couldn’t quite make it reach her eyes. “I have my own, but thank you. A Galadhrim bow of the finest quality.”

Feren dipped his pointed chin. “Of course. Then I shall see you on the morrow.”

Massaging her temples, she swept away.

She found herself gravitating, as the afternoon wore on, to the bath-hall, which was silent and empty at this hour. Scrubbed brass bathtubs stood shining under the iron chandeliers, spots of candlelight reflected in their sides like fireflies. The rough-carved stone walls and ceiling, rising to vaulted domes high above, turned her soft footsteps to hollow echoes as she ventured across the floor; she could feel the cold, damp flagstones through the soles of her shoes.

To her surprise, three of the chamber’s bronze ewers stood full and steaming to one side, next to a row of wooden cloak hooks. On her way here she had entertained the possibility of asking one of the palace servants to bring her some heated water. Now, it seemed, she would not need to. These had clearly been freshly filled.

Perhaps, she thought, the Elvenking’s staff kept the hall stocked with bathwater as a rule. A large number of Elves lived here, after all. After only a moment’s hesitation, she grasped the handle of one ewer and half-carried, half-dragged it over to the panelled wooden screen that cordoned off a small corner of the chamber; the same one she and Menedhel had bathed behind when their party had arrived.

It wasn’t long before she was sinking with a sigh into a shallow, but near-scalding, bath. Her dress, which she had stepped out of several feet away, lay pooled around her shoes in the shadows by the wall. A wave of sleepiness washed over her at the water’s hot embrace, her late night stroll and the restless hours she had lain awake thoroughly catching up with her.

It was blissfully silent in the hall, the only noise the occasional splash of water as she changed position or stretched her legs. She couldn’t even hear anyone in the passage outside – lunch was long past, but it was still a little too early, she guessed, for anyone to be changing for dinner. Vaguely, through the growing haze in her mind, she wondered when Haldir would return from that day’s patrol. But after lying there for several long moments, she found herself unable to hold onto any thoughts for very long.

Enveloped by warmth and comforted by her isolation, she dipped in and out of a light doze for a while; then slipped, eventually, into a dreamless sleep.

*

_Clunk._

Cadhríen started awake to the sound of a ewer meeting stone.

The water she was lying in was unpleasantly cool; there were goosebumps on her arms and legs. She had awoken without moving, with a quick flutter of her eyelids and a sudden intake of breath, but now she slowly shifted, sending lazy ripples across the surface of her frigid bath.

Though she sensed she had not been asleep for long, her body ached where it pressed against the tub, and she had the beginnings of a painful crick in her neck. The fog of slumber took a few seconds to pass, but once it did, she was horrified to hear footsteps beyond the wooden screen and a sudden swish of water.

“Will that be all, Your Highness?” came a low voice.

There was the sound of someone stepping into water; another splash. “Yes. Thank you.”

Every single curse she knew ran rapidly through her head.

She knew that voice.

Cadhríen felt her face heat to a rosy red as she realised her mistake. _The patrol!_ While she had been asleep, Haldir and the others had clearly returned; and, she remembered, the prince had said last night that he would be joining the border guards’ outing today.

She pulled herself up to a sitting position, smoothly and gradually enough not to disturb the water, and desperately contemplated escape routes.

The ideal course of action would be to wait, hidden, until he had finished his bath and left, and hope that she breathed quietly enough for her presence to pass unnoticed. Though there was, of course, the concerning possibility that the rest of the patrol weren’t far behind him, and would soon fill up the hall, perhaps even coming close enough to the screen to spot her.

Getting dressed was undoubtedly the first thing she ought to do, lest that situation come to pass. But as she slowly, slowly rose from the water and stepped out – the dripping and sloshing muffled, mercifully, by the sounds of the prince scrubbing away in his own tub – she realised that she had made not just one, but two more critical mistakes.

First: her dress and shoes lay beyond the edge of the screen. Several feet beyond it, in fact – too far to reach with an extended arm without being seen. Neither Legolas nor his servant seemed to have noticed the small, dark pile; not yet, in any case.

Second, and possibly even worse (for her backup plan had been to wrap herself in a wash-towel), she realised with dismay that there was nothing – not even a cloth or rag, let alone a robe – hanging from the hooks on the back of the screen. Stupidly, she had not thought to fetch one before she’d stepped gratefully and eagerly into her bath. It had been so silent and empty in this part of the palace that she had not expected anyone to disturb her.

Panicked and shivering, Cadhríen took an unthinking step back, still staring at the bare screen. But as she raised her foot to take another, her ankle connected with something cold, and, before she could stop it, the ewer she had walked into tipped, wobbled precariously, and finally went tumbling over, hitting the flagstones with an almighty _thunk_.

A shocked silence followed, but it was short.

“Hello?”

The prince’s tone was sharp; a clipped command.

Cadhríen’s breath hitched. Then, closing her eyes in exasperation, she exhaled slowly before saying, “Your Highness.”

_Why_ had it had to be him? Hadn’t she run into him enough in the last few days?

There was a lengthy, awkward pause; only the sound of the prince sitting up in his bathtub interrupted it. There was no noise elsewhere in the chamber – the servant must have left.

Before Legolas could reply, Cadhríen forged ahead, recalling with unease their frosty parting the previous night. Her tone was as chilled as her skin. “I apologise. I… came in for a bath earlier; the hall was deserted. I must have dozed off. I didn’t think anyone would come in.”

Another silence. But then she heard a slosh of bathwater as the prince moved; she thought from the sound that he had sunk lower in the water again. When his response finally came, it was, infuriatingly, a long, low chuckle. She felt the tips of her ears burn; whether in anger or embarrassment, she couldn’t quite work out.

“I see your clothes now, over there,” he said. “I’m sorry I didn’t notice them, or my valet could have fetched a female servant to help you.”

A shiver passed across her shoulders; she was freezing standing there, wet and bare as the day she’d been born.

“I shan’t look,” he continued, his voice laced with amusement, “while you retrieve them.”

“You’re very kind,” she said snippily, before she could stop herself, and he laughed again, through his nose this time. He was clearly tickled at her predicament.

Cadhríen dithered a moment, then tentatively poked her head around the side of the screen.

She’d known, of course, that he was in the bath, and so unclothed, but it still caught her inexplicably off guard to see him lounging there, in a long tub in the centre of the chamber. Thankfully, only his head and broad shoulders were visible over the rim, and the water was choked with soap bubbles.

He nodded fractionally at her. His fair hair was unbraided and soaked through, plastered flat to his head. Her own was damp and hung in long clumps, cold and clammy against her back and shoulders.

She felt a nerve in her temple twitch as she reluctantly said, “I have no robe or towel; there were none hanging here.”

The amusement in his gaze only grew, though she could see he was attempting to hide it. He nodded again – solemnly this time – and closed his eyes and turned away, one corner of his mouth ever-so-slightly curled upward. Cadhríen, berating herself inwardly (for this was all entirely her own fault, she knew), stepped quickly over to her clothes, gathered them up and moved nimbly and quietly back behind the screen.

“My thanks,” she muttered as she dabbed herself dry with her dress. A second later, she had slipped it on over her head, and water splattered onto stone as she hastily wrung out her hair.

There was a swish of water, and the prince’s voice issued again from beyond the screen, this time largely free of mirth. “So I take it you did not sleep well, after your star-gazing?”

Cadhríen paused. A moment later, she smoothed her skirts and emerged into the chamber, darting a suspicious glance over at him. He had pulled himself a little more upright, and sat now with each elbow bent, forearms resting on the sides of the tub. There was a wet sheen on his skin, reflecting the candle-flames in the chandelier; water dripped every now and then onto the dark flagstones below.

“No,” she said shortly.

He looked steadily back at her, his expression unreadable. “Nor I.”

She found she could not meet his stare for long. It reminded her of that evening in the parlour, when she had noticed – despite herself – the glimmers like stars in his eyes; the smooth, arresting angles of his face. Instead, she dropped her gaze to his shoulders; but that was no better, really. She feared it would appear she was admiring him (which she was _not_ ; not at all), and so, feeling warmth bloom in her cheeks, she glanced away and strode purposefully across the room towards the door.

Before slipping out, she paused and turned her head, showing him only her profile. “I… apologise for interrupting your bath.”

There was a faint slosh as he shifted in the water. “There is no need to.” It sounded genuine.

Then she was gone, out and away down the silent passage, the heavy bath-hall door pulled tightly closed behind her. As she hurried towards her bedchamber, infinitely glad to be putting distance between them, she breathed out sharply in relief and promised herself never – _never_ – to fall asleep in a bathtub again.

Moreover, she vowed inwardly never to speak of this to Haldir. Her friend, she knew, would never let her live it down; and she was sure Eärfin and near everyone else they knew would hear of it from him before long…

It was just as she was passing the entrance to a small, hexagonal antechamber that she noticed a flash of red-gold out of the corner of her eye. Checking her quick pace, she hesitated and glanced to her left, into the chamber, and saw someone sitting there on a low, stone bench, their head bent low over their open palm.

It was Tauriel.

Forgetting her awkward encounter for a moment, Cadhríen slowed and then stopped. She realised she hadn’t spoken to the russet-haired maiden at all since their arrival; had barely seen her, in fact, since the Elvenking’s brusque words on the dais, almost a week ago. Had it only been that long?

Tauriel, sensing her presence, lifted her head slightly, her emerald eyes flicking up to meet Cadhríen’s in the dim, torchlit chamber. Cadhríen was taken aback to see that the maiden had been weeping; her eyes glittered and were rimmed in red. Her expression was taught, the corners of her mouth pinched, and Cadhríen found herself glancing away, uncomfortable under that piercing stare.

For a moment, she considered saying something; apologising for the disturbance, perhaps, or enquiring as to what was wrong. But in Tauriel’s pale, open palm, she could now see a small, dark token – a smooth stone of some sort, etched with faint runes she couldn’t quite make out.

It seemed she had unknowingly interrupted a private moment – the second time she’d done that today – and she berated herself, abashed. Quickly, she set off again, hurrying away and up the passage, her nerves thoroughly strung out and her own palms sweating.

She would skip dinner this evening, she decided, in favour of tucking herself into bed with sweet tea and a book. And as she made her way through the maze of walkways to the guests’ chambers, she wished, not for the first (or second, or third) time since she’d stepped foot in these halls, that she was a hundred miles away.


	12. Arrows of Gold

The toe-curling awkwardness of her run-in with Legolas in the bath-hall had faded somewhat by the following morning.

Partly, this was down to a full, glorious night’s rest, which had served not only to restore her energy but to improve her soured mood. It was also, however, a result of the impassioned internal talking-to she’d given herself on waking, just as a servant entered to light the lamps and deposit a hearty breakfast on the side table.

Nobody had been at fault; not really. Certainly not she. How could she have known the steaming water was for the prince? She was a guest – she had only been in the halls a week. None of the Lórien party yet knew the ways and routines of the palace.

All the same, when she ran into Haldir later that morning, she brushed off his enquiries as to her whereabouts the previous evening with a murmured comment about losing track of time in the Elvenking’s expansive library. Her friend’s grey eyes narrowed slightly and one of his slim brows quirked, but he did not pursue the topic, instead launching into an account of the patrol’s convoluted efforts to track a wily and rather stubborn boar – which, he revealed with a touch of ill-concealed smugness, would be on their banqueting table that night, slain by his very own hand.

It was only a few hours hence, when she and Menedhel were making their way to lunch, that Cadhríen remembered her promise to Feren to attend his archery ‘practice’ on the terrace that afternoon.

She picked at her bread and cheese with increasing glumness, dark eyes scanning the dining hall, and wondered whether she could get away with simply not turning up. But Haldir, who came over to sit next to them (and was clearly in congenial spirits following his tangle with the boar) mentioned that he was planning to go along. And when Feren himself came into the hall, tailed by a gaggle of fellow border guards and already carrying a large, rough-hewn bow at his side, he happened to catch their gazes, and he nodded fractionally in recognition, lifting the bow with a small, smirking twist of his lips.

Cadhríen looked levelly back at him, then dipped her chin a little stiffly in response. There was no getting out of it now, she knew – both Feren and Haldir would expect her to be there, and feigning illness just wasn’t going to cut it. Not now that she’d already given Haldir such a poor excuse for her absence the previous day.

After lunch, she returned to her bedchamber briefly to change and fetch her Galadhrim bow. The soft, grey leggings and boots she donned felt odd after nearly a week of long skirts and slippers, and she had to hunt for her hair pins and ties, which, though they’d come in useful on the journey north, had now found their way to the very bottom of her baggage.

She stared at herself flat-eyed in the mirror as she hastily wove a braid and secured it to the back of her head. Then, sighing and sagging slightly where she stood, she mentally steeled herself, took up her bow and quiver, and strode to the door before she could talk herself out of it.

*

A week spent mostly below the ground meant her eyes had grown used to gloom and shadow. When she emerged onto the terrace at the top of the spiral stairs, she had to blink and shade her brow with her hand, for the noonday sun was fierce.

Just as Feren had said, the terrace was carved out of the great hill itself, open to the blue spring sky and bordered on one side by a high rock wall. The rough ground had been boarded over with wood, and a thin rail was all that separated the gathered crowd from a near hundred-foot drop. Beyond it, the thick forest canopy was visible, leaves waving in the warm, fragrant breeze.

As Cadhríen blinked a few more times, a dark figure appeared before her, which eventually – once her eyes were working – turned out to be Haldir, holding his own bow and well-used quiver. Beside him loitered lean, ebony-haired Amrohil, who shot her a conspiratorial smile, and from nearby she heard Eärfin’s familiar, genial tone, recounting some story or other to one of the Mirkwood Elves about his guard duties back home.

A sharp _snap_ from somewhere ahead of them caught the assembled Elves’ attention, and Cadhríen manoeuvred herself forward for a better view, sidling up close to Haldir, who lifted an eyebrow apprehensively as he briefly met her gaze. Feren was there, facing the group, and behind him, a fair distance away up the terrace, several straw targets had been set up. The snap, it seemed, had been the click of the guard captain’s fingers.

“Thank you all for joining me for this little… diversion,” he said, extending his arms in a gesture of greeting. “In these dark times, it behoves us all to take every opportunity we can to hone and practice our skills in combat.” Here he paused, and let his eyes flicker over the motley group. “Shall we begin at, say, sixty yards?” He indicated the straw targets arrayed behind him. “As there are not enough targets for all, I’m afraid we shall have to form queues.”

As the Elves began to shift and mutter and slowly congregate into loose lines corresponding to each target, Cadhríen glanced around with a flicker of irritation. _Starting_ at sixty yards? Her comfort zone was roughly fifty – she could hit most anything at that distance, moving or not. But the terrace had to be well over a hundred yards long. Feren was clearly planning to push them up to that, and possibly beyond, which was guaranteed to whittle the group down to just a small handful of the very best archers.

One individual who was certain to be among that number suddenly caught her eye in the milling crowd. The sun had glanced off his white-blonde hair as he turned his head, and it drew her attention away from the guard captain.

Legolas.

He was dressed in his understated browns and dark greens, a leather baldric strapped tight across his chest and a quiver full of gold-feathered arrows at his back. He carried a large bow with curved ends – it looked elegant, and was inlaid with some decorative detail, but was in general less elaborately carved than the bows of the Golden Wood. He stood nearby, engaged in murmured conversation with a raven-haired Elf she didn’t know, but as his gaze roved the group it momentarily found hers, and she felt her cheeks flush slightly as she recalled the circumstances of their last encounter.

Turning, she steered herself away from him and joined a queue forming near the thin rail that lined the terrace’s steep drop-off. It took some moments for the assembled Elves to organise themselves, but once they had, she saw that the prince was over by the rock wall, parallel to her, and that, by a stroke of monumentally bad luck, she had ended up side by side with Feren himself, who was her counterpart in the queue directly to her left.

The captain caught her eye and offered her a tight smile, which she reluctantly returned, wishing now that she _had_ feigned a headache after all. But she was here now, and thought she might as well make the best of it, so she unshouldered her bow and bent her head over the string, pretending to tighten it to put off unwanted conversation.

To Feren’s credit, the pretence of a ‘practice’ was kept up for some time. By unspoken agreement, the Elves fronting the queues took as long as they needed to brush up on their skills, those waiting behind them generally happy to stand and chat, or simply observe.

Legolas, Cadhríen couldn’t help but notice, reached the front of his queue before her, and fired off a dozen or so shots in the blink of an eye, the shafts all clustering tightly at the centre of his target. As she watched him aim, taught with concentration, his forearms perfectly parallel to the line of his shoulders and his arrow fletching a mere hair’s breadth from brushing his lower lip, the image of him sitting up in the bath pushed its way into her mind’s eye uninvited; his bent elbows on the sides of the tub, skin reflecting the pinpoints of light – the same shade of gold as the feathers on his arrows – thrown by the candle flames that had lit the dim room.

“Cadhríen,” came a voice, and she shook her head to clear it, frowning. Next to her, Feren was moving forward to take his place at the head of his line; his palm was upturned, fingers splayed, and she realised it was her turn, too; that the chestnut-haired Elf that had been firing in front of her had disappeared and left a space for her to fill.

“Oh,” she said, blinking and stepping up next to Feren. With a flutter of apprehension – she was undoubtedly going to be rusty, having not practiced properly for many months – she busied herself selecting an arrow from her quiver and checked her bowstring for what had to be the hundredth time.

But it seemed she had caught Feren’s attention now, for he raised a thin eyebrow at her as he nocked an arrow of his own and aimed.

“Something on your mind?” he enquired, closing one eye and firing. It was a fine shot.

Cadhríen threw a wary glance in his direction before readying her bow and staring determinedly down the shaft of her arrow. The chestnut-haired Elf was still retrieving his own arrows from her target – she waited, familiarising herself with the feel of the whorled wood under her fingers, and at length gave a clipped reply.

“No, I… I’m just a little tired, that’s all.”

It was a lie – she was perfectly refreshed following her unexpectedly early night – but she hoped the benign response would prompt her neighbour to lapse back into his usual indifference.

It didn’t.

Feren looked back at her, studying her face as he reached for his next arrow. “Oh?”

She kept her eyes on her target, which now stood empty and unimpeded. Taking in a breath, she tightened her fingers where they gripped the bowstring and, a second later, let loose. The shaft buried itself a full half inch above the centre of her target, and she grimaced, avoiding the guard captain’s gaze. “Yes. I confess I am still not used to sleeping so far beneath the ground.” She reached back and nocked another arrow, adding, “I don’t think I would ever get used to it, to tell the truth.”

There was a swift _swish_ as his second arrow cut the air, followed by the _thud_ of its head hitting packed straw. “Interesting,” he said, and she heard that familiar sardonic undertone creep into his voice, though it was faint. “I’m sure no one would object if you came up here with a pile of blankets and a pillow.”

She tried to concentrate on aiming, but couldn’t stop herself darting a frown at him as she adjusted her grip.

“Nothing unnatural about a touch of homesickness,” Feren continued, relaxing his hold on his bow and appraising his target critically. Then he tipped his head and glanced over at her, seemingly weighing something up in his mind. After a second or two, he dipped his bow and stepped a little nearer to her. “If it makes you feel any better,” he said in a low voice – so low, in fact, that she had to turn her head to hear him – “I have it on good authority that your party will not be required to linger here much longer. The Elvenking, I’m told, has reached a decision on Lord Celeborn’s proposal, and intends to announce it at dinner tomorrow.” His expression tightened – whether it was an attempt at a smile or something more like a grimace, she couldn’t tell. “So – you and your companions may find yourselves back in your lofty lodgings a little sooner than you’d hoped.”

Cadhríen stared at him, her next arrow forgotten, but Feren raised his bow and went back to scrutinising his target. “I’m really not supposed to say anything,” he added, and loosed another shot. “So do keep this to yourself, won’t you?”

She swallowed and readied her own bow again, staring straight ahead to try to cover her shock. As she stood there, thoughts whirling, anger flared and then simmered at the back of her mind. She was certain she could guess which way the king’s mind was made up.

Unable to help herself, she looked quickly over at Legolas, who was still perfecting his already near-perfect aim in the shadow of the rock wall. She recalled the way his expression had flattened near the stone bridge two nights ago; his dismissive laugh when she had accused him of feeling threatened. Her fingers whitened where they gripped her bowstring and she found herself musing, bitterly, that he had won – he had persuaded his father that their aid was worth nothing; that seclusion and separation were the safest ways to weather the coming war… _Fools._

Part of her wanted to seek out Amrohil and tell him what she had learnt. But something – a niggling need to hear it all; to have it laid bare and confirmed that she and Amrohil had been right, despite knowing how smug Feren would be when he informed her – made her linger. She swallowed again and fired, barely paying attention to whether she had even hit the target. “I see,” she muttered, tugging a third arrow from her quiver with a touch too much force. “And have you also been appraised of the choice he has made?”

Feren was down to his last few arrows, now. To her surprise, he paused, and when he nodded in reply it was more a stiff jerk of his head. Far from looking smug or self-righteous, he seemed frustrated – angry, even. “I have,” he said, and his voice was barely above a low murmur. He flicked a glance at the Elves standing behind them, but they were engaged in a friendly debate and paid no mind to the conversations around them. Feren raised his bow roughly and fully glared at his target as though it was an Orc. “It seems he has decided in your favour,” he said, giving her an inscrutable look. “Congratulations. Though I must say, I personally have doubts that this course of action is for the best.”

Cadhríen lowered her bow slowly, abandoning all pretence at focusing on her aim. “I’m sorry?” she said, turning to gape at him.

Feren looked irritated and cast another glance left and right. “You heard me right,” he said. “The king has been persuaded.”

Her thoughts were spinning too quickly for her to keep up. Putting out a hand, she caught his arm to try to ground herself. “Then Celeborn successfully argued his case,” she whispered, “despite…” She let out a breath and felt a smile steal over her face. “This is good news indeed; the Lady Galadriel will be delighted.”

“I’m sure,” Feren said flatly, and shook off her grip. “But I’m afraid your… _noble leader_ cannot claim all the credit.” His lips twisted as he turned, took up his bow again and examined his target with a disapproving air.

“What do you mean?” she demanded, her own bow held unheeded at her side. An odd nervousness seemed to have crept into her stomach, and as she tried and failed to force her thoughts into some semblance of order, her mouth went a little dry.

“Why,” Feren said dismissively, “you must have noticed the prince’s _daily_ visits to his father’s study. He has not exactly been keeping them under wraps.” The guard captain loosed an arrow; it missed the centre of his target by a centimetre or so, and he let out a shallow sigh of disgust. Glancing at Cadhríen, he noticed her expression. “No, you wouldn’t know, I suppose – he hasn’t exactly shouted it from the treetops. But Legolas – much as I’ve attempted to make him see reason, let me tell you – has been defending Celeborn’s proposal for some time now, in private. Before you all even got here, in fact.” Feren shook his head. “Your messenger – what’s his name? His arrival sparked off much debate. But when we heard you were approaching, Thranduil put a stop to it. Said we weren’t to discuss such matters in the halls like it was common gossip.” He huffed out a short laugh and let off another shot. “In any case, Legolas has long been in favour of this sort of alliance, and unfortunately – though understandably – his opinion holds more sway with the king than mine does.”

He glanced back at her then, eyes narrowed. “As I said, I’m not supposed to be telling you any of this, so – please – keep it to yourself until _after_ the announcement.”

Though she was looking at the guard captain, Cadhríen couldn’t really see him. The terrace, and everyone on it, seemed to lurch, and she turned away quickly towards the metal railing, where she stared out over the thick foliage with a face like she’d seen a ghost.

The leaves blurred, one into the other, as the spring breeze played through the branches. The butterflies in her stomach had turned to eagles’ wings, and she was worried that if she tried to leave, she’d stumble. Flashes of snatched conversation, of words spoken in shadow, flitted through her mind.

_“You are making a mistake.”_

She turned back to Feren, trying as hard as she could to hide her escalating unease. “I won’t say anything,” she said, unable to force the slight tremble from her tone, “but tell me – back before we arrived, was the king… had Thranduil… was it clear which way his mind was leaning?”

“Oh, yes,” Feren said, and she saw that he was unshouldering his now-empty quiver, readying himself to leave and collect his arrows. He dropped his voice. “Thranduil didn’t like it one bit,” he said, a little triumphantly. “I got the impression he was almost ready to turn you around and march you right back out of Mirkwood.” There was a pause as he shouldered his bow and shot her a small, tight smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Now, if you’ll excuse me,” he said, “I’m going to suggest we move the targets back to eighty yards.”

And he was gone.

Cadhríen was left at the railing, where she gripped the cool metal and stared back out over the northern reaches of the forest. Behind her, she heard Feren clap his hands for quiet and begin to address the assembled Elves, but his words didn’t register. She was frantically, silently, sorting through the last week in her mind.

_“I think perhaps he feels… threatened.”_

_“And you do not?”_

She squeezed her eyes shut.

Wrong.

She had been wrong. Hasty. Blind. _Stupid._

She almost jumped out of her skin as she felt a soft touch at her elbow. Eyes snapping open, she turned, her whole body rigid, to find Amrohil standing beside her, an odd expression on his youthful face and a faint, pink flush to his cheeks. Cadhríen stared at him, uncomprehending.

He cleared his throat a little awkwardly and stepped nearer to her so as not to be overheard. “You’ll never guess what Eärfin heard from one of Feren’s border guards on the patrol yesterday –”

Holding up a hand to stop him, Cadhríen felt the tips of her ears begin to heat as she answered, in a small voice, “Don’t worry. I think I know.”


	13. Heart to Hearts

“Well then,” Menedhel said matter-of-factly, from where she sat cross-legged on her low bed. “Are you going to offer him an apology?”

Cadhríen took a gulp from the carved goblet she was holding to delay having to give an answer. She was stretched out on her side on her own bed, legs bent and dark hair splayed out behind her, an abandoned book of verse face-down on the thin coverlet by her feet.

It was how Menedhel had found her about half an hour before, when Cadhríen had failed yet again to turn up to dinner. After some persuading, not to mention half a goblet of the wine Menedhel had brought with her from the banqueting hall, Cadhríen had haltingly told her friend everything: from the snatched argument she had overheard on the dais when they’d arrived, to the scene she’d come upon – and misjudged – in the hall outside the king’s study. She’d gone back over that first dinner, too, when she had answered the prince so coolly, and related their run-in in the forest and his reaction (which made a lot more sense in hindsight than it had done at the time) to her cold demeanour and barbed replies.

The only thing she’d left out was the bath-hall encounter – _that_ , she’d decided as her cheeks grew warm, wasn’t critical to the story; and she was feeling fragile enough without also finding herself the subject of Menedhel’s barely-contained mirth.

Her fair-haired friend had listened to it all with a disconcertingly knowing look on her face. Now that the tale was over, Menedhel watched Cadhríen expectantly, her wide blue eyes unblinking in the wavering shadows of the torchlit chamber.

Cadhríen frowned and picked awkwardly at her coverlet. “Apologise? I hardly… I mean, I didn’t actually _accuse_ him of anything. Out loud, anyway.”

Glancing up, she saw Menedhel’s expression flatten, though the corners of her friend’s mouth quirked slightly. “That may be true, but from the sound of it you let it colour your every interaction. And he can’t have failed to pick up on your general… discontent.”

Cadhríen shifted where she lay. “Has it really been that obvious?” she said unhappily, and winced at the answering look Menedhel gave her.

“Cadhríen,” the younger maiden said, “if I hadn’t known any better, I’d have thought, from the way you’ve been stalking around the place, that you were against Celeborn’s proposal yourself.” She took another sip of her wine before adding, “You and Haldir both.”

Cadhríen didn’t answer at first, instead placing her goblet on her bedside table and rolling onto her back, staring despairingly up at the ceiling. “That’s not true at all,” she said eventually. “I… I’ve been a little homesick, that’s all. And Haldir sees the sense in the accord, trust me. He is just… very loyal, and protective of the Galadhrim.”

“Protective like Feren is of his own warriors?” Menedhel said slyly.

Cadhríen let her head fall to the side and they shared a look, a slight flush to Cadhríen’s cheeks. She gave a roll of her eyes, but it was conciliatory.

“So, are you?” Menedhel said after pause. “Going to apologise, I mean?”

Cadhríen looked back at the engraved stone ceiling. “What do you expect me to do? March right up to him in the halls? ‘Incidentally, remember all those times I was an arrogant pig? Well, I can explain –’”

“Of course not,” her friend said. “Just get him on his own.”

Thinking of the admiring throng of border guards that seemed to cluster around the prince at any given opportunity, Cadhríen murmured, “Simpler said than done.” Then she sighed, sat up and drained her cup of wine, perched now on the edge of her bed, facing Menedhel. “Very well,” she said. “ _If_ the opportunity arises, I shall try to make amends. Are you satisfied?”

In answer, Menedhel lifted her goblet in a mock toast, then gulped down the dregs of her own drink and smiled.

*

But the opportunity did not arise that evening, nor most of the next day – the day Feren had claimed would be the day of Thranduil’s announcement.

Sure enough, in the afternoon, Celeborn sought out what members of his party he could find in the twisting, maze-like halls, and told them to expect good news that night, at dinner. When he came across Cadhríen, who was in the parlour enjoying sweet tea, spiced biscuits and the book she had tried but failed to lose herself in the previous evening, he clasped both her hands in his and said, in an undertone, “Our Lady’s request is fulfilled. Do not share this news widely – Thranduil intends the statement he is to make at dinner to be the first his subjects hear of it, for I believe he expects resistance from… some quarters.”

Only a day before, Cadhríen realised with a prickle of shame, she would have taken Celeborn’s words to be referring to Legolas – more fuel for the fire that had been smouldering angrily in the pit of her stomach up to then. But it was Feren’s face that now popped into her mind’s eye. _‘I personally have doubts that this course of action is for the best…’_

Covering her discomfort, she grasped his hands gently and said, trying to look suitably surprised, “That warms my heart to hear. We are all grateful, my Lord, for your persistence.”

His eyes crinkled. “Well, I am to understand I had aid in this matter. But – forgive me – we shall have more time to talk tonight, for as we speak the Elvenking is arranging with Galion a sumptuous feast and a celebration to follow; with music and dancing and, I expect, plenty of his favourite Dorwinion wine.”

Cadhríen laughed. “Then he must be in good spirits,” she said, and released his hands.

“Do you know where Haldir may be found?” Celeborn said then, casting an eye around the parlour. “I cannot track him down.”

“No,” she replied, “but I am after him myself.” She moved her book, which had been lying open in her lap, to the couch. “I shall go looking too, and tell him the news if I find him.”

Celeborn looked relieved. “Then that is one less person I need to seek out before dinner. Thank you.” He bowed his head with a smile and departed, his step noticeably springy.

Attempting to ignore the guilt his cheerfulness stirred faintly within her, she took the last biscuit from her plate, got up and left the parlour, intending to check the antechambers off the main hall for Haldir. He could occasionally be found there, repairing his arrows or polishing his bow.

The halls were quiet – she expected many of the servants were below, preparing for the Elvenking’s feast or fetching barrels of wine from the cellars. A few members of Celeborn’s party stood speaking in low voices, heads close together, in one of the chambers she poked her head into – clearly their Lord had already found them and imparted the good tidings.

The next chamber she walked into, however, contained just one person. An Elf-maid, with russet hair that shone like bronze in the light from the flaming torches on the walls.

Tauriel.

Cadhríen had not been quiet in her entry – the sound of the door opening and the pad of her footsteps on the stone caused Tauriel to look up. The maiden was sitting on a long, low bench near the fire, an unstrung bow next to her and a ball of glinting thread, which looked like elf-hair, in her lap. She was holding a knife with a wooden handle, which she slowly lowered and placed beside her on the bench as her dark eyes met Cadhríen’s.

The memory of their last encounter flashed into Cadhríen’s mind. It had been just after her little… _embarrassment_ in the bath-hall, and she had been eager to escape any and all company. She remembered that Tauriel had been weeping, and had held a small token – a stone etched with a rune – in her palm, but Cadhríen had not stopped to ask what was wrong. As she stood there in the doorway, dithering, she felt a hot stab of shame again. She saw, with hindsight, how cold she must have appeared; and before she could second-guess herself, she sidled into the room and pushed the door closed behind her, offering Tauriel a tentative smile.

Tauriel dipped her head and briefly placed her palm to her chest in greeting.

“I had thought to find Haldir here,” Cadhríen said by way of explanation, and took a few steps towards the maiden, feeling the warmth of the fire begin to play across her skin. “He often repairs his own bow here, on that very same bench.”

“I have not seen him,” Tauriel said simply. It seemed she too was recalling their awkward encounter, for she looked slightly wary, though her gaze was not hard.

Cadhríen’s eyes flicked to the cord resting on Tauriel’s knees. “Elf-hair?” she said, walking forward to admire the glint of the coiled tresses where they reflected the chamber’s torch fires. “We string our bows with it also, in the Golden Wood. Easier on the fingers, and it makes for a more precise shot, don’t you find?”

Tauriel looked down; smiled. “Yes.” Then she glanced up, scrutinising Cadhríen with those rich, bark-brown eyes. “You are a fair archer,” she said. “I saw you practicing on the terrace yesterday. More training and dedication and you could be great. You have good form, and that is more important than sheer power.”

Cadhríen flushed slightly. She had not even known Tauriel was there. No doubt the maiden had been somewhere behind her, in one of the queues nearby. She nodded. “I… thank you.”

Tauriel bent her head again, concentrating on her restringing, but Cadhríen found herself reluctant to leave her previous rudeness unaddressed. Given she had not yet come across Legolas, she might as well start on the path to repentance with another person she had foolishly wronged.

“I wanted to apologise,” she said abruptly, her fingers meeting in front of her waist, where they fidgeted nervously. “For my conduct the other night, when I saw you but did not stop to talk.”

Tauriel had not glanced up, but her hands had stilled on her bowstring.

“You were distressed,” Cadhríen continued, “and I was unfriendly. I am sorry. I hope… I hope whatever hurt you had suffered has now been mended?”

There was a heavy silence as Tauriel stared down at her lap. Then, slowly, she raised her head and offered Cadhríen a wavering smile, though there was sadness, now, in her dark eyes. “It is nothing,” she said, “truly. I would hardly expect you to jump at comforting a stranger.” With a slight frown, she reached into an inner recess of her dark-green garb and brought out the very same token she had been holding that day, gazing down at it and turning it over and over in her fingers. “As for the hurt being mended…” She shook her head slightly and paused a moment. “It can never be so.”

Cadhríen stepped a little closer to peer at the stone. “Those are unusual runes,” she said. “They look Dwarven, but I have not come across them in the tomes I have studied.”

Tauriel did not look up. “I do not know what they translate to,” she replied, “but the person who bestowed this on me said it symbolised a promise. A promise that he made to his mother to return to her.”

Her voice had grown quiet, and she ran her thumb over its smooth, dark surface.

“And did he return?” Cadhríen asked softly, wondering who this person the maiden spoke of was. She had heard vague rumours, some years ago, of dealings between the northern Elves and the Dwarves of the Lonely Mountain.

The corners of Tauriel’s mouth tightened, though when she finally raised her eyes, she was smiling slightly, and her gaze had grown a little distant. “He is at peace,” she said, “with Aulë, in the Halls of Waiting.”

Cadhríen bowed her head in respect. “Some that I have loved are in the Halls of Mandos also.”

To her surprise, Tauriel, with a quick movement, stowed the token back within her tunic and passed a hand briefly across her face. “But enough melancholy,” she said, and when she looked up, something of that youthful fire that Cadhríen had noticed on first meeting her had returned. “I am sorry we have not spoken before now. A friendly face in these halls is something I would welcome; for however much longer your party stops here, at least.” She hesitated. “I was away for a stretch of time not long ago, and in my absence those I had been close to grew… distant.”

Cadhríen held out her hand. “Friends, then,” she said, and with a warm look Tauriel returned the gesture, and they briefly clasped palms.

“I understand if you do not wish to say,” Cadhríen continued, sitting near her new friend in a chair facing the fire, “but why did you leave?” She recalled the final leg of their journey through Mirkwood, when Tauriel had told them she had once led the Border Guard.

Tauriel’s lips quirked. “I suspect the king would rather I did not speak of that,” she said, angling her own body towards the fire too. “Especially now. But… he is not here.” She darted Cadhríen a slightly mischievous glance. “To tell you the truth, he banished me.”

Cadhríen’s mouth fell open. “ _Banished?_ ” She tried, for a moment, to imagine being banished from Lothlórien, but found she could not. It was too awful to contemplate. “Why? And where did you go?”

Tauriel lifted a slim shoulder. “I disobeyed his orders,” she said simply, “though it was a choice I felt was right at the time. I am sure he felt that what he was doing was right, also.” She paused. “As for where I went: I wandered. It was… hard.” She frowned. “But I was never alone for long.”

“Oh?” Cadhríen said, thinking distractedly of the Elvenking’s cold severity; those piercing, ice-blue eyes. She shivered. She could well believe him capable of banishing one of his own subjects.

Tauriel’s next statement caught Cadhríen off guard.

“Legolas, of course,” the maiden said, with a look as though it should have been obvious. “He stood by me; even defied his own father for me, at one time.” A small smile tugged at her lips. “He is a dear friend, and among the very best and most honourable of Elves.” Her eyes flicked up to meet Cadhríen’s. “Have you had many dealing with the prince?”

Cadhríen tried to hide her guilty flush. “No,” she said, getting up and pretending to warm her hands in front of the fire. “Only a few… passing conversations.”

“Well,” Tauriel said from behind her, “you shall have to take my word for it.”

“I do,” Cadhríen replied, and to her surprise she found she meant it.

Her thoughts were zigzagging now, confused. Memories from the past week flashed intermittently in her mind. That first dinner: Legolas’s invitation to Haldir to join them on the next day’s patrol. Now she saw it clearly – he had interrupted Feren to put a stop to the argument. And he had invited Haldir on subsequent outings to allow her friend the opportunity to prove his skill; which Haldir _had_ done, by felling that troublesome boar.

She thought then of the gathering in the parlour, when Haldir had sung to them of the Golden Wood. ‘ _Long have I wished to walk in that fair woodland, under its leaves of gold…’_ Another attempt to dispel ill feeling, though derailed somewhat, she recalled, by Feren insisting the prince recount his various heroics.

“Cadhríen?” she heard Tauriel say, and when she turned back, away from the fire, she saw that the copper-haired maiden had one eyebrow raised.

“I’m sorry,” Cadhríen said, and shook her head to dispel her thoughts. But before her new friend could speak again, there was a sound from the entranceway – the door had opened and a blonde head had poked through.

“ _There_ you are,” came a familiar voice. “For a moment I thought you had gone into the forest and got yourself lost.”

“Speak for yourself,” Cadhríen shot back, and Haldir grinned.

“I have been skinning that boar,” he said, “and then I very much needed a bath. But I am here now, and I have something rather important to tell you.” He darted a glance at Tauriel and his expression grew closed; impassive. “It concerns Celeborn.”

“Then I think I know,” Cadhríen said slowly, shooting Tauriel a wary look of her own. It seemed rude to allude to a secret they both knew in front of one who did not.

But Tauriel merely folded her slim hands in her lap and said, “I take it you are referring to the announcement tonight?”

Cadhríen gaped, and from the doorway Haldir gave a disbelieving chuckle.

“Yes,” Tauriel continued flatly, though that playful spark had ignited in her eyes again. “I think Feren has likely blabbed to every Elf in the king’s halls by now.”

Cadhríen folded her arms and shook her head slowly. “It certainly wouldn’t surprise me.”

With that, the three of them left the chamber in good cheer; and they were met not long after in a corridor by a servant, who informed them that dinner would be served in an hour and that they were ‘ _under no circumstances_ ’ to be late to the table. “And I suggest you dress formally,” the servant finished, eyeing in particular Haldir’s marchwarden’s greys.

As the Elf swept away with a rather harried look, Cadhríen and Tauriel exchanged amused smiles and parted, promising to share a toast, later, both to newly forged friendships and to the newly forged alliance.


End file.
